There is no way there are golden retrievers in the Amazon.
I watch my wooly golden girl on humid days
as she walks slowly, heavily, even her whiskers droop.
She gives me a mournful look as we get back to the house
clearly asking if we can move further north than our Minnesota home.
The kind that pounds the ground and splashes up
caking low leaves in mud
spattering dirt into mosaic designs on higher foliage.
Five minutes later…
Clear delicious air, the kind that only comes after rain.
Wind, even blue sky amidst the dazzling clouds.
This is a joyful poem.
I was going to write about poppies.
About the way they shoot skyward
then burst into color so rich
that you feel it as well as see it.
It was to be a simple poem
about being in the moment.
The poppies a lovely example
of something glorious and fleeting,
as their paper thin petals
last but a few days.
The birds start before dawn
when there is just a hint of light in the dark sky.
I like to think they are greeting the day
although there is a lot else going on to be sure.
From territory disputes to nest building
laying, incubating, or hatching
calling to one another
or, I’m just certain, singing because it’s morning.
It doesn’t matter how many decades I’ve been doing it.
Every single year, when I plant vegetable seeds
the size of a pin head into soil
I am mesmerized and astonished when they sprout.
Some are tenderly nursed along indoors
establishing some roots before they are set in the garden–
exposed, then, to elements
that both hinder and encourage their growth.
Solstice is a powerful teacher:
the trickster who invites you to go out sledding on a moon-less night.
Daring you to take a risk, to lean in,
to stay with what is uncertain and unseen.
She whispers in your ear as the sled starts to move,
Your vision limits you here.
Your desperation to see keeps you from seeing.
In this place, we see not with our eyes, but with our whole being.