Grounded

The stories all forget that the Buddha

was just a man sitting beneath a tree

in the middle of the night, weathering

the storm of his thoughts and fears,
each one demanding:  Who do you think

you are?  His simple answer:  to reach 

down and touch the earth, feel the wet

hair of the grasses, the smooth skin

of sandy soil beneath his hand.  And so

I say to myself:  Ground yourself here.

Pick up a single dead oak leaf, if that’s

all you can do, and turn it this way

and that, so the leathery surface gleams

in thin winter light, so that the earth,

which you are, can welcome you back.

— by James Crews; chosen and read by Amy W.

Which I Am

(in gratitude to James Crews)

It was supposed to rain.

—-

Instead, the sun chose to appear

behind a thick grey,

inviting the foggy mist to change form

before my eyes

as I stood feet planted, leaning back into

the arms of southern red oak’s

receiving trunk.

When I walked on, passing more broad-reaching oaks,

a Swamp Black Gum, I patted them

felt their furry soft or brittle barks, and said loud enough

for them to hear thank you, thank you.

—-

I stopped for a parade of wild turkeys, 

flank feathers orange, brown,

stripes and spots, glinting in the sunlight,

watched one lag from his mates, bounce up 

once, twice, to snatch a crimson berry

poised on a branch of holly.

He rushed to catch up, pleased.

—-

Toward the end of my walk, a tuft of grass at my feet,

each blade gifted at its tip with a sparkling drop of dew,

a Japanese apricot fully pinked around a corner,

Camellia blooms big as my hand,

and atop the last row of hedges

evidence of spider art, their circles of webs 

accepting

mist, leaves, apricot petals the wind dropped off.

—-

This being here, this miracle of a morning

ordinary and stupendous

is who I know I am

and all I noticed and didn’t today

know that to.

— Photos and poem by Amy Webb, January 27, 2024

                  —————————————-

Rest, Sit and listen
Birds conversation all-around 
awakening my ears
What are they saying?
What do they know?
Who are they talking to?
Do crows talk to sparrows?
Do crowned cardinals listen to little wrens?
Or are they just joyfully proclaiming the gift of today?

—- Poem by Sue J.

The fog quietly and gently lifts,

Stillness so abundant

that the clouds rest in the

peace of it all.

The earth and the sky

welcome me back.

One of its own.

— Photos and poem by Nancy L.