Discovering Beauty in Everyday Life

I was walking along an old path when I saw a large pot.  Inside it was a map with faded ink and well worn creases.   "I know where the rainbows are," it said.  I keep it in that small indelible compartment.  You know the place.

I remember winter.  Those  bleak-lit days. Day after day; day in day out; crawling along their tedious way.   Snow flakes as big as pillows, ice like cedar. Green needles and melting water slipping through the spaces. Oh yes, and icey stars so clear you want to count them. Have you ever seen too much beauty? To many shimmers tugging, clutching on your soul? Uncut streams of life swirling and spinning? a tiny newborn mite nibbling on a newborn leaf? I found a four-leaf clover pressed and living  in a book  for almost 40 years.

Yellow cups with yellow frills, A city graced with daffodils. Sunny yellow springtime frocks, Pirouette on slender stalks, While graceful leaves caress the air Knowing not a single care, Nor worried over any thing. They live again; it's finally Spring!                            by  Vera of Colorado

I almost missed it, pre-occupied as I was. . Nothing fast enough for me! Right, left, scratch and skid. Damn snow. Who's in charge, and where's the salt? I have some thoughts to mull about and very little time. Move over! I hunkered at the corner curb to watch my step, and in that pause, I paid attention.  And look what I got for my money.

Yes, I remember. We left a track or two among the fray. Rush and scramble, turn and bounce. Cracking silence, muffled by a hat. Holding wet handfuls of winter.

I love a good fence. A fence puts a perspective on a thing. It tells you where your edges are, and has a certain voice. Don’t touch! Take care! Something needs protecting! The winter grass is tall, incautious, full of seeds. phragmites against the reservoir fence

Starting anew is a nice thing to do if you know where you were when you stopped, But if you're like me there's a certain degree of wondering where it was dropped. I remember quite well how I was when it fell, in between and betwixt and befuddled. It might be for the best to begin a new quest, where the waters are clearly less muddled. If beginining anew is the best thing to do, I shall begin twenty-ten optomistic! Away with the fear, it's a happy New Year, Be Happy, be Free, be Joyistic!

I have illusions, yes, why not? I’m dainty and I’m free, a swallow light with feathers, A pretty one, with fine golden hair and just a bit of a waist. Then a petty glance, a bent reflection, and The childhood memories fester, pulling. Look again! Now! I know the truth!        Don’t say it, please.        Don’t make it true with your fine opinion. Look again! Watch! Stomp! Stomp! Where’s the dainty tread now? It never was, never! Watch! Now! I know the truth! I’m not the pretty one. I’m not the dainty one! Oh no, don’t see it too. See the time the fearing graying rancid mist does not seep in. And you can see the willows brush against my face. Do you know the feeling?

Now I have space for today and cannot capture it. The words are paltry, yet this is the most beautiful day! Clean blue; clouds to take home and cuddle in. Cool, soft and crisp edges everywhere. Leaves waiting for their turn to add a new genre to fall, and I am tinged with the colors of it all.

The grasses are still wet and green, but the trees are slimming down for the fall. The boughs are somehow see-through instead of lush, wet and wiping green. Remember summer with the dark green leaves heavy on the boughs? And early spring with the quiet, delirious points of green. Remember the tiny gingko leaves, perfectly formed, and the Oak leaves all spring green and barely born?

It was only I who saw it I believe. It doesn’t matter though, since now I will be on the lookout! We are on a plane from Dallas to La Guardia. I’m on the left side ahead of the wing. Next to me is a pilot trying to catch a 6 o’clock plane and we are both late. He lets me have the window seat, since he gets to look out all the time. It's green below the white bushy clouds, with a layer of mist winding its way around them. It's the grey of summer rain. I look down, and between these swirling clouds there is a summer canyon defined by shadows, and there it is! -- short and fat and barely bent. It looks the length of perhaps a submarine. I can’t believe it but it stays there, and I watch for maybe seven minutes.    I reach for my camera, but the rainbow has quietly gone.

I was replaying the cold wind of a recent criticism and I needed a walk. There was no time, so I wrote! I’m on my way out of a rich furrow of dirt in a plowed field. Shinny, new and sparkly green and gold. Dewy with those crystal colors on the grass tips. Smell! Oh my. I move out into the sun and the rain. Fresh, clean newly turned earth. I sleep here at night, and stay awake too with the moon, and reach up for the essence of stars. My feet and all are planted in the earth, but that doesn’t mean I cannot jump from row to row, and also feel the dry dust. But it doesn’t touch my toes that reach deep into the waters of life. I sing, I soar, I swim, and I do not sink very far anymore.

At three I was a prodigy, at four no more I guess By five or six my days were mixed The days gone by are super clear I know it doesn’t rhyme my dear, Let’s not discuss The obvious. I know I’m not a poet, I never said I was I said was a prodigy I note without apology It’s just that life slips on its way, and I stand by because I wonder what I should have done To turn the tide, survive the run To capture days in rain and fun To frolic in the leaves of sun. I never saw it coming, though I guess it always does Another day before my feet Another flower a sly defeat Another triumph cleat by cleat With fuzz and buzz and dilemmas