MARCH MORNING

Photo by S. Auberle

6:45 a.m.

honeyed tea

and warm scones

halo of sunshine

illuminating

five candles

and a lily

on the oak table

three blooms

three buds

birdsong--the music

playing and

Ashokan Farewell...

now and then

in our tangled lives

come undemanding moments...

do not, please,

let them pass

unnoticed

- mimi

THINK SPRING

Photo by S. Auberle

AAhh, Spring.

No, not yet Spring.

And no longer Winter.

I'm adding a new season to the other four. This season of hope, expectation, possibility, promise: Wing. Yes, Wing is the name for this season--a combination of winter and spring. And a season of wings...the migrating birds, birds in their nuptial plumage, their joy in songs of new light.

Have settled in this beautiful place of snowy woods and ice-bound waters, after my own migration north. Arrived here voiceless, without words. That's how it feels and I've been reluctant to resume this blog because of that.

It was a long trip, full of every kind of weather March can throw at you--ice, snow, fog, sun, wind and rain--beautiful weather, but treacherous on some days. Seeing the crane migration was unforgettable, magical even. Someday, if and when I find the words, I'll write about it.

The visit home was poignant, bittersweet, as those visits often are--but good.

And now, having exhausted my small store of words, I'll return to silence, a quality long undervalued. Return to that ice-edged beach I walked yesterday, its sand winter-scoured and clean, the open waters that shade of heartbreak blue. I'll watch again for the winter ferry, a few ducks, the pure grace of two swans rounding the point.

Listen to the wind...

- mimi

GYPSY

Photo by S. Auberle

Gypsy Woman is on the move again. Kermit, my it-isn't-easy-being-green car is almost packed and ready to go. Mountains--will be seeing lots of mountains: the Sangre de Cristos; the Rockies; up to the city lights of Denver for a visit with friends; then onto those flat plains of Nebraska to see the return of the sandhill cranes; eastward to the hometown for awhile; then north--to woods and waters perhaps still frozen, but with spring waiting in the wings...

- mimi

SUNDOWN

Photo by S. Auberle

another old, old poem...

Blow, purple wind

ride your wild horse tonight.

My sundown man comes,

enfolds me

in his blanket.

With turquoise and coral

we paint our medicine

in the sand

and your icy fingers

will not reach in here

tonight...

- mimi

AMONG RUINS

"Riverhouse" Ruin - Photo by S. Auberle

I may have posted this poem before, if so, I apologize. But just ran across it again, liked it, and decided to post it.

AMONG RUINS

Once in awhile, out in the desert,

comes a day when anything can happen.

A day when you lose yourself

in that pool of light just at the horizon,

when you can see time

running backward in a lizard's eye,

a day when a voice seems to murmur

from crumbling hilltop ruins:

approach with respect

the land you tread on

was once my bones...

Comes a day when stones speak

and you understand,

a day when you know Coyote knows,

a day when old pottery buried in the earth

fills your heart with words:

look, the sky is round above you

like my red bowl

like time in its circle

like the Earth

holding all our bones...

- mimi

QUESTION

Las Vegas "Paris" poster

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?"

- Mary Oliver

ENGLISH LIT PART TWO

Digital Image by S. Auberle

Moving along in English history, I've since fallen in love with the YOUNG Henry VIII. I know, he was a tyrant, a womanizer, a really bad guy in many ways. But he was once young and incredibly handsome, from what I've read--a shining, golden, prince of men. It really isn't fair to focus only on his later years, when he went so astray and became the horribly fat, repulsive looking man we see in all those pictures. Wherever he is now, I've no doubt he cringes everytime he sees one of those fat pictures and mutters, damn, couldn't they find a better picture than THIS?

I adored the BBC series The Six Wives of Henry VIII. If you have any interest in this period, this is the piece to see--in six parts.

It is suspected that Henry was the mysterious author of that beautiful song--Greensleeves. Written, perhaps, to a young Anne Boleyn. However, there is also the Kingston Trio song about Anne:

With her head tucked

underneath her arm

she walks the bloody towers,

with her head tucked

underneath her arm

at the midnight hour...

It's doubtful Henry wrote that.

I once firmly believed in reincarnation. I've not completely given up on the idea, but with aging, though I would like to believe it even more, the doubts creep in. It may be, however, that given my passionate love of this time and place, perhaps I was Anne Boleyn. Not because I fancy myself a queen, but because still, after all these years, I'm not even CLOSE to getting my head on straight...

FRIENDSHIP

Mandala by S. Auberle

"I get by with a little help from my friends."

- John Lennon

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"A friend is one to whom one may pour out

all the contents of one's heart, chaff and

grain together, knowing that the gentlest

of hands will take and sift it, keep what is

worth keeping and with a breath

of kindness blow the rest away."

- Arabian proverb

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hold a true friend with both hands."

- Nigerian proverb

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Happy Birthday to all my Pisces friends!

- mimi

ENGLISH LIT--PART ONE

Digitally enhanced photo by S. Auberle

Went to see The Other Boleyn Girl yesterday. Not the greatest movie I've seen, by far, but tolerable. I am a passionate fan of all things medieval English. This may date back to high school, and my first exposure to this period. Not in History class, no, that was boring and dull--nothing but battles. My awakening occurred in English Lit class, when I balanced the true, romantic tale of Katherine Swynford and the Duke of Lancaster in front of my textbook and totally lost myself in their love story until another (rude) awakening occurred. I reluctantly tore myself away from the English castles to find a very tall nun staring down at me and (rudely) snatching the book away, with the terse announcement I was to join her in her office. This would be the school principal--feared by all--she put up with absolutely no nonsense, unlike some of the other nuns whom we could gently terrorize.

As I sat there in her office, she not only thoroughly ripped me for being uninterested in literature, but also denounced the book--claiming it to be a source of impure thoughts (a huge issue of mine at confession) and lewd text. I did, however, score one small victory---with the most innocent of looks, I casually mentioned the fact that this book was gotten right off our oh-so-pure-and-holy library shelves! She became even more incensed at that, but looking in the back of the book, found the school stamp, and could not argue with me.

I served the two weeks of detention without complaint.

SILENCE

FANCY STUFF

Photo by S. Auberle

Once I liked

the fancy stuff

a designer latte

a truly fine Pinot Noir

one perfect tulip

lobster dipped in butter

you in a suit and tie

when it wasn't for a funeral

even a tux--once

but then

there's campfire coffee

from a battered pot

bluegrass and Two Buck Chuck

walleye fried in an iron skillet

your old wood-scented sweater

I wear to stay warm

now that fancy

doesn't live here anymore...

- mimi