The Words We Can’t Recapture

Eagle chased by hawks

preening bruised feathers

in dark green shadows

of an ancient poplar tree.

Like poems that come

while lying next to a napping toddler

who sleeps with one arm reaching out

to a lightly dozing companion

while he dives deep

on his way to REM sleep,

forging neural pathways:

a 90-minute journey.

I unplug the phone


dedication to his growth

even as poems alight —

exotic birds in leafy recesses,

glorious array of rich patterns,

symbolic tribute.  I lie still

quietly watching as they spread

magnificent wings and fly

until they pierce the sky,

leaving no trace.

As a young mother, how I mourned

the loss of so many poems.

Now I am not so enamoured

with words and more

I know by now whose sky

is pierced and how each

thoughtful observation is a pebble

thrown into the calm lake,

rippling out, creating new

reflections: a poem unleashed

like an arrow or flung like a rock

or a child dreaming.

Sometimes the best we can do

is celebrate this fleeting beauty

and sharp despair as we feel our way

into what makes a life.

My grown sons piercing my heart-sky

with pride and my grandson unfurling

like an angel set down

in a secret garden.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: uncompromising


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I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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