Alive, on Planet Earth

When the Westerly blows,
clouds scudding across the sky,

and the waves crash thunderously

upon the shore,

when the morning fog

blankets the sides of Meares,

jaggedy treetops poking through

making me catch my breath in wonder,

while the morning fishboats

putt-putt-putt across the harbor,

and the bell tinkles

over the door of the Common Loaf,

all the faces turning to see who just came in,

wet rain-gear sloughed off and steaming

in the warm, bread-scented air,

when the eagle cries atop

his favorite scrag,

and ravens pace the beach

hoping for dropped scraps,

dogs lolloping in and out of the waves

with loopy grins,

and surfers stand to ride, and fall,
and rise again,

when the morning sun breaks

over Lemmens Inlet,

and the jellyfish wake in God's Pocket,

when the seabirds' cries are muted

by the roar of the surf,

and they sit facing seaward in a huddle,

predicting storm,

when sunset paints the entire sky

with colors too fantastic to describe,

after the big fiery old orb has vanished

behind the far horizon,

 little sanderlings weaving and darting

along the shore as one body,

and the sonorous back and forth,

ebbing and flowing,

of the waves' ceaseless 

advancing and retreating

sings us home,

when the wind howls up a tempest

that batters every living thing,

and we hide indoors,

awed by her strength and fury,

wood-stove crackling,

and snug and well-content,

when just being alive and breathing

in this blessed, sacred, forever place

seems more bountiful

than a wagon-load of gold bullion

and I more richly blessed,

there is no Thank You big enough

or sufficient words to tell

how dearly I cherish the beauty,

the sheer awesome

interconnected wonder 

of Clayoquot Sound,

or how grateful I am

to have walked this earth walk

with the song of its waves in my heart,

how, each evening, 

climbing into my purple bed,

each morning, climbing out,

I feel the blessing,

rich with all life's worth,

just to have another day, like this,

alive on Planet Earth.

I re-worked an old poem for my prompt at the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads: to write a love song to the place that says Home to us. I have been granted the extraordinary gift of living in this magical place, not once, but twice in my life, and I could not be more grateful. This is a very alive place in which to spend my sunset years! Do stop by Toads, where you will find some very fine reading, any day of the week.

A Word from Mother Tree

My babies were all safely tucked
in their little bud-beds,
when that sultry Chinook wind
fueled by human greed and ignorance
blew through and lured them
to awaken too soon.
I tried to warn them,
but buds will grow
the way they want to grow.
They rarely listen to Mother Tree.
When the sap rises,
they're off and away.
And so they opened,
and my heart wept,
my tears joining the freezing
rain and sleet that followed.

The hardy ones may recover
and complete their cycle.
But so many little blooms were lost,
along with the fruit they would have been,
along with the disappearing bees
and salmon, and whales,
and coral reefs and plankton,
all gasping in humanity's
last choking dance of despair.

It isn't easy,
being a Mother Tree,
in a world grown perilous
for things that grow.

for Magaly's cool prompt at Real Toads: to speak with the voice of a grieving tree whose buds have been damaged by climate change.