Protea in California

Immigrant days:

feeling I don’t belong,

forgetting that

great beauty

is often alien.

Unlike the god Proteus

who changed at will,

I cling to a vanished

personal form,

yet knowing

that we are all transplants 

who must adapt.

Sunday phone call

Seems so odd, what we remember.

With such a vast store of memories,

I miss the Sunday call, 
very long-distance,

with my Mom. 
The last one ─

about eighteen years ago.

Usually, we talked about weather or

breakfast, or what she had seen on t.v.  

Sometimes we would talk wildflowers:

a great love learned from her Mom.

Seems so odd, what we remember.

A village up-rooted

The neighborhood bee-keeper’s hives

swarm out of fear or dislocation,

seek a safe haven.  

A frantic search: 

much like life

every day

in war-torn countries 

every where.

Easter Blessings

Wishing everyone many blessings at Easter.

The rebirth of seasons and the hope of a beautiful future

seems to be with so many this time of the year.

My hope is that it true for you.

The creator of this little street garden in San Francisco

certainly has both trust in the passersby

and a light approach to living in the world.

Things change

So many things are changing:

gardens in amazing bloom.

friends embracing both loss and joy.

And for me, life is full and yet I contemplate:

Hafiz said, “something missing in my heart tonight

has made my eyes so soft”

Again, things change.

Surprise

Somehow the blooming, budding

strawberries in a street-side garden

were a jolt of awareness─

we are truly past winter now,

even though the rain continues

and gray skies are nearly as common

as sunny and blue.

Sweet possession

A child dropped his mandarin orange

on the playground sidewalk.

Mom said, “No, don’t pick it up”.

Within minutes it was a glorious feast

for a house fly on an outing. Or,

a beautiful resting place.