Category: Nature

To Hell and Gone, Revised

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Graduation night, Persephone and her girl band rocked out in the high school cafeteria. Glittery sequins covered her jacket like chain mail. She was young, it was spring, life was good.

But spring turned to winter when Persephone quenched her thirst with a fruity punch at intermission. Her head spinning, she stepped outside. That hellhound from the shooting range who was always trying to get into her pants appeared.

Blame it on the punch; she followed him. Her mother, a social influencer, raised the alarm. Millions searched. The gods got involved. When the two returned, her mother gave him hell. 

(Apologies, it’s been hard to keep up this week.)

Things to Do While Waiting

RawPixel Public Domain
Take a walk.
Soak up sun for the vitamin D; looking to cure my SADD. 
What an acronym. 
This winter has been bad. Must be old age. 
Try not to get old.
Make a vet appointment for the dog, grooming appointment, too. 
I’ve done the crossword, not had breakfast. I’m reading the newspaper.
An inspiring story about a man in So Cal who’s taught Afghan women to drive. More Afghan women drive in So Cal now than in Afghanistan. 
Not surprising, but still inspiring. 
Small, good deeds keep us young.
I wish the dog would poop. I have things to do.

Quince Blossoms on Bare Wood

Photo by u0414u0430u043du0438u043b u0421u0438u0434u043eu0440u043eu0432 on Pexels.com
Quince flowers on a bare stick of a tree,
blooming in the dead of winter.
Coral colored buds against brown bark,
two elements, earth and water.

The blue aired sky, the fire orange sun. 
Air and sky and weft and warp.
The dogs sense a reckoning.
They raise their ears in a unified front with the four elements.

They yowl into song like actors in a musical.
At times like these, when winter seems eternal, when spirits flag,
when fear threatens to extinguish the elements of life,
we need a rousing score. A yellow brick road. A little dog, too.

A Change of Spring

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Not windy as we thought it would be.
Light breeze spins a metal orb;
shelf fungus grows in a tree knot.

Spring, the first of many buds,
of many mushrooms, honey colored. They make the most of rain.
Draw it into gills that spore. The dogs sniff around, giddy.

Soon enough another front will come. We’ll hunker inside.
Soon enough a fierce February like last 
February when soil sogged and trees uprooted.

We live by the weather, uncertain what else might give way,
grateful the sun shines, for now.
Then watch the world move fast past points of no return.

Wishing Spring

Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com

Until spring comes, Persephone will fill the Styx with tears of longing for her mother.
Caught in the prison of Hades’s grasping power, she mourns.
Caught in the devil of the season, we wish it done.

We cry for hope.
Hope that the dark sky opens. That sunlight shines on puddles and nourishes green shoots of grass. 
Grass like flying carpets.
Take us from this dark country, soar high on a hope and a prayer.

A hope that Persephone and Demeter will be united
in love of Mother Earth. Their garden will bloom again. 
A prayer for spring. For redemption.

Ratatouille

Photo by Tanner Johnson on Pexels.com

“Watch for the dog. I’ll shred the persimmon.” It was essential that tonight’s sitting go well. The food critic, Ratatouille, whose biopic took the world by storm, would be dropping by to review the restaurant. Their swanky Peninsula location near home gardens filled with fresh produce was ideal. The rats hoped for a five star rating.

When the dog stopped patrolling at 9, it would be safe to open. Gaston checked the sky for Orion. Waiters set out piles of persimmon, pine nuts, and dried passion fruit in the garden shed.

Someone shrieked. Ratatouille? A satisfied cat turned the corner.

Peace and War

Photo by Monica McHenney
The poppy leaf is stiff and white with frost.
Delicate feathers of foliage contrast against
brown mounds of spent high grass.
When the sun comes out, the poppies thaw.
Dew beads on a multicolored expanse of meadow.
Rough and soft textures interweave;
edges spill at random, blend in harmony.

Tetchy plants prefer to dominate, isolate.
Eucalyptus comes to mind.
Allelopathic, eucalyptus inhibits growth in adjacent plants.
Shreds of fallen leaves smother the ground. 
The sameness of the eucalyptus forest,
its homogeneity like a vast suburban tract or a war zone.
Chemical warfare, a kind of balance, a kind of aggression.

Trees Weeping On a Gray Day

Photo by Damien (DAM) Right on Pexels.com
Swirling specters scatter 
cinnamon maple leaves,
whirling dervishes, they dance in autumn 
snow. Wind breathes
life, then stops.

I would stop but
the dogs pull through
slick pools of layered leaf litter, 
a spill of wet red
color seeps into wine dark puddles left from 
last night’s rain.

Just hours ago,
a gray day 
a hint of sun at ten, and blue.
But now it’s settled into quiet light,
an end of year contemplative light.

A wise light that gives 
the year a voice,
gives the day a meaning,
illuminates falling leaves;
a soft blanket over bright, cold truth.

Art Makes Life

Photo by Nguyu1ec5n Thanh Ngu1ecdc on Pexels.com

The artist is not in sight, but dinner is waiting for her. The long thread that holds her web to a fence on one side and a hedge on the other stretches at eye level. We bend to avoid it. We take care because we can. Because we have time to notice.

We are not running from war, wildfires, earthquakes, floods. We are not doom scrolling, furious, hunkered down. Instead, we appreciate the utile beauty of a spider web. It has survival value and strength, a work of art glistening with dew in the sun. A reminder of tenacious life.

Autumn Chill

Photo by Monica McHenney
The dawn light has changed
to a grey gold cousin of the blue brilliance that brightened my summer. 
Max's golden lab fur blends into the tawny tall grass. 
He looks at me. “What do you want? The works? Right.” 
He pees again, strolls to the center of the meadow lawn, and squats to do his business. 

His business is to 
please. It is the thing he does best, most naturally. Despite arthritis, 
his portly, chunky body seems to yield. Face aging white, 
he's older than I am. Seventy-seven. 
At seventy-two, cranky and arthritic, I won't age gratefully or graciously.