Welcome!

 

 

Feather Duster Feet
(Barnacles)
 
When tide is low, we close up tight
like clumps of chalk - dry and white.
When tide is high, we come alive.
Our feasting starts as waves arrive.
 
Attached headfirst to shoreline rocks,
we feed with feet - no shoes or socks.
Our feather duster feet will sweep

for tasty morsels from the deep.

I Reach for the Night

 

With a sweep

of my arm,

I reach for the night

to pull

it down close

as I slip into sleep.

 

It encircles

my limbs,

my face and my feet

with its shimmering

blanket

of blackberry velvet—

embroidered

with threads

of glimmering gems.

 

Each whispering jewel

serenades

with a lullaby:

     dream . . .

          dream . . .

               dream . . .

Seeds of Peace

 

What if seeds of peace

            grew like weeds:

                        persistent,

                        hardy,

                        resilient?

We’d pull the tops,

            but the roots would stay:

                        spreading,

                        quiet,

                        insistent.

We might forget them . . .

            until they sprouted again.

What if pesticides were outlawed

            or non-existent?

The warmth of a smile,

the nurture of time

            would be all it takes:

                        asters,

                        daisies,

                        lavender.

What a welcome invader

            peace would be.