not without sin

a sin to throw away anything

that might still have usefulness

child that i am of parents

who started married life together

early in the Great Depression 

Mom left cupboard after cupboard

of washed, capped jars as i have one such low kitchen cabinet stocked

with glass containers ready 

for second, third or tenth use

magazine envelopes yield large scraps

of paper for shopping lists or cut down

to 3 x 5 for index cards

rubber bands securing asparagus

are wound around a plastic tube on

my desk, some waiting their next duty

until old age robs them of elasticity so

they quietly snap at touch lying

in useless line where their lifework had been the ability to encircle and hold

together as mine was to continue

saving and building until i, too

lie down, unable any longer

to gather scraps or to mend the broken bits the world has handed me

or to enfold and protect those i love

until they can grow and flourish

water’s give and take

tiny waves sweep outward

crisscrossing intricate competing circles

between rows of feathered carrot tops

as each dense raindrop plummets

from the toolshed’s melodious

metal roof splashing, heavy,

into shallow brown ditch water

or trickle into rivulets gurgling

to caress the lowest points

of Mama’s garden

I scour her fine furrows

with the blunt end of a stick

trying to drain this overabundant

life-sustaining gift of water to keep

it from drowning her days

of planting, hoeing and

humming in hope

a trice or two

gentle moments catch us unaware

draw us into knowing we share

something deeper than words

shifts into catching our breath

the ululation of screech owls

claws raw the wounds of loss

while mourning doves coo companionable comfort

a sunbeam pierces thunderhead

to light a path between heaven

and earthling and soft peace settles

on a mourning gasp

moments without preparation

startle us into assurance

beyond grief or fear, if only

for that instant

shafts of northern lights

shafts of northern lights

arch from horizon to horizon

muted white, at times tinged

with green or pale maroon

rather than pink but strangely still

as though embedded in faint haze

third night of aurora borealis

from our sun’s upheavals, flares

of intense, chaotic storm

hurling fierce, solar winds

against earth’s electro-magnetic shield

how little we comprehend

our fragile haven amidst

the battle of titanic forces waging

so close around us

TINY PLEA

tiny white butterfly flittered

near like an asterisk calling

attention to itself. ‘Here I am,”

it seemed to whisper, ‘perishing

in this early summer sun. I don’t

have dark blues or blacks

or large, wide-spread wings

that would help me cool myself.

Your global warming is killing me

and so many others. Please, please

tell your others to change

how you use our earth and air.’

rain gauge

oregon rain creates bleak chill

even when spring should dwarf

all efforts to dampen sunshine

our spirits droop, even knowing

dust devils will soon dervish—

whirl all thought of grays

and stir our longing for mist

and the soothing respite of dew

watercolor storm sky

a watercolor storm sky

of billowing clouds of grays

agonized purple and yellow

tortured by erupting orange

from angry, mottled blues

edging toward precipitating

their slivers of ice and shafts

of slashing rain when placating

winds shift their proximity

allowing sunshine to mediate

the argument to tete-a tetes of spring

pile to prize

funny what people choose to admire

physical beauty that requires

face lifts and tummy tucks

perfume and make-up

to try to sustain

or money which is which is a paper

promise easily burned or stolen

or conned or lost to greed or failure

to mend unseen holes in pockets

when, all around us

is a wealth of beauty maintained

by mother nature and geologic time

flora and fauna richly varied, colorful

beyond our far-flung imagination

waves gliding or pounding

into shores smoothed or carved

or gouged into wondrous cliffs

or dunes or caves resounding

with joy abundantly shared if

we would only be still and listen, look

touch, taste, smell and welcome

talk with birds

i wish i could talk with birds

that would make it easier to communicate, although hummers

do pretty well eyeball to eyeball

like the little Anna’s who chided

me through the window for allowing

the red, liquid treat to be depleted

or my zebra finch who patted

my hair as i reached into their cage

to give them fresh seed and water

or the snowy owl who watched me

standing in awe admiring him

and turned nearly full circle, posing

so i could have the full experience

of his splendor

or the osprey dad who glanced at me

as, worried, too, i watched

with him his oldest chick

gathering courage for its

first flight from the rugged nest high

on the platform of a utility pole

still, their plaintive cries or smiley

chirps and twitters leave me wondering

if their sounds mean to them what

their calls stir within my own emotions

i wish i were wise enough to understand

tottering throne

wrestling with my dismay

at the moral decay while

knowing with my mind

it is a distraction from discovering

who or what is the power behind

the visibly tottering throne