STUDY IN LILAC

Photos by S. Auberle

May and lilacs fade

summer is a-comin' in

bees are drunk with love

~ mimi

FOUND POEM

Photo by S. Auberle

The Hopi call the moon of May Waiting Moon

Mohawk the Moon of Big Leaf

Potawatomi say Moon of the Strawberry

Osage the Moon When Little Flowers Die

The Apache call it Moon When the Leaves are Green

Anishnaabe the Blossom Moon

The Moon When Ponies Shed Their Shaggy Hair

say the Northern Arapaho,

but I simply call her

Luna, Queen of the Night

OH NO!

All photos by S. Auberle

I just realized it's been over a week since I put a new post on here! I've simply been outdoors, much more than at this computer, because it is so beautiful I can't bear to be inside. Summer has arrived...

Rise up my love, my fair one,

and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth,

the time of the singing of birds is come;

and the voice of the turtle

is heard in our land...

~ Song of Solomon

MUSHROOM FANTASY

Photo by R. Murre

Who is there that does not yearn for a day when the Mushroom Goddess smiles down upon them, revealing her well-concealed secrets for this moment, to this chosen few? Early evening, spring light still tender in the forest, wild leek-scented air fragrant and soft. Recent rains make us hopeful, and soon the first one shyly beckons. Okay, I think, just a few more now--enough for a fine appetizer, please? And there, and there, and then some more...and the forest is suddenly singing with 'shrooms...here, here we are... oh, such delight! Finally, home to saute in butter and olive oil, with just a hint of lemon to sharpen the earthy aromas and taste. A Riesling to accompany...vase of fading tulips on the table...deep rose sky in the west...

May

Photo by S. Auberle

Who has time

for blues

when May is flowing

like warm honey

down the curves

of my soul?

~ mimi

an oldie which I still like...

THE GIFT

Author and mom

THE GIFT

I still see you, Mom, sitting there in your green chair, looking out at the mountain--Zack the dog, lying at your feet. He knew you were hurting. Wasn't much he could do, but fix his soulful gaze on you. And wag his tail once in awhile, for sympathy. Zack was old too, his step slow, once golden face now completely white.

Your swollen legs were propped up, skin so tight it looked near to bursting. I was afraid to touch them. But one day I found your favorite, rose-scented cream, and massaged your feet and legs with it. It felt so good, you said, and you smiled at me, as always--pride and love in your eyes as you watched me, no matter what I had, or hadn't done.

A good day, you said, is when I don't know I'm breathing. Your beautiful heart was struggling, but you never complained, even as you hated pulling the oxygen tank behind you. Finally, you'd given in and accepted it, as we waited while doctors tried all their magic tricks.

I had little faith in them. Your faith was in the worn book of prayers that always lay nearby. Zack, I think, had faith in everything. The look in his eyes seemed to say that he understood that dogs and people wear out, that even mountains reach their craggy peaks, then slowly round down their days. Dogs are masters of acceptance.

That terrible time passed. Finally, the doctors came up with the right medicines and you lived five more good years. I only rubbed your feet that one time and I don't know why. It was a gift and a privilege, one I wish I'd accepted more often.

Missing you, Mom...

WONDER

Altered detail of Frank Lloyd Wright house - Photo by S. Auberle

time,

effaced

by tears,

peopled

by ghosts,

their

naked

wonderment

held

in

my

mind's

eye

~ mimi