Love Is In the Details

"Love is in the details," she smiles,
pressing one halved walnut piece
into the center of each shortbread cookie.

The old dog sits, nose upturned,
eyes level with the table,
fixed and unswerving,
alert for any falling scraps.

Steam fogs the windows;
beyond, winter darkness 
blots out the landscape.
I put the horse 
into the barn early, tonight,
the chill air making her eager
for the sound of the stall door
closing behind her ample rump,
the sound of her chomping an apple
loud in the moment before
the barn door is closed
against the winter night.

In the house, 
the striped cat curls regally
under the bushy tree,
batting at the low-hanging  cows 
and cowboy Santas.
Colored lights warm the room
and, on the sideboard, 
candles flicker.
We bask in the glow
of Christmas Present,
and the poignant memories
of Christmases Past.

How many more will I be allotted?
"Yes, Love is in the details," I return,
with a smile.

Brian's prompt, at dVerse Poets Pub is intriguing tonight: to write a poem using descriptive detail to build a scene. 

A Dirge

I light this candle

in memory

of small bright-eyed children

who were waiting for Santa

until another man came.

And for his soul, too,

damaged  terribly

somewhere along the way.

How to ease this ache

in our collective consciousness?

May we wrap our loving thoughts

around

those good folk

suffering unimaginable grief

today,
so they are blanketed,
and held,
and know that 
they are not alone. 

May its flame remind us

to keep coming from love

and not from fear.
Even when that
is the hardest thing to do.

May its glow shine

along with so many others

across this planet

that we shift from darkness

into light so bright

we all

Wake Up.

Fromage Fatigue

Here is our bad little Blakey, waiting for his breakfast.
Lori is sauteeing chicken livers in butter, to spread atop his crunchies.
Lucky dog, no?
Dish thunks down.
Blakey looks down, then up, waiting.
He is waiting till Someone grates some cheddar over it.
Lori complies.
He deigns to eat, finding the dish reasonably satisfying.

I told Lori, "I was too tired to grate the cheese last night, but he still ate it."
She said, "Too tired to grate the cheese? Fromage Fatigue?"

Cackles.

The Midden

 image m.theglobeandmail.com

Over the years
in which I walked this land,
watching it slowly return
to its natural state,
I have discovered
I do not walk here
alone.

The day I found the midden,
broken clay pots, arrowheads,
realizing it was a burial mound,
I withdrew,
feeling my presence unwelcome
on such sacred ground.

The land allowed me to explore
its steppes and, over time,
revealed itself to me,
with all its secrets of the past.

It became a touchstone 
for my imaginings
of those long-gone days
upon the land.

There have been times, 
looking up,
when my vision shifted,
to encompass pelt-clad maidens
and braves with feathers in their hair,
moving across the fields 
as they did in days of old.

When next I looked down, 
and up again,
they disappeared.

And I wondered:
was this me, here, being shown
a vision from the past?
Was it a parallel reality, 
occurring alongside mine?
Or was I the odd, 
unfitting apparition
in this landscape
that did not - could not ever-
belong to me?

Was I seeing them in days gone by,
or were they seeing me
as a premonition
of  peril?

In time, with respect, 
being careful not to intrude,
I began to feel their acceptance
of me, there.

But never again could I find
the burial mound.
It had completely
disappeared.

Hannah's Transforming Friday challenge at Real Toads is to write from the point of view of a resident of the prairies. I have read most of Sharon Butala's beautiful books about her life in south west Saskatchewan, including a favorite, Wild Stone Heart. In this book, the author describes her walking of a particular field on her husband's sprawling ranch. They had agreed to allow this field to return to its natural state and she writes of her experiences coming to know this stretch of land. She tells of finding a burial mound one day, on a raised promontory, overlooking the lower landscape. Feeling her presence was intrusive, she quickly withdrew. But she could never find it again.

She tells of having  visions, or somehow being able to see, the aboriginal early dwellers on this land, as they went about their daily lives. Fascinating stuff. She also wrote two other faves, The Perfection of the Morning and Coyote's Morning Cry.

I am behind in commenting, kids, as have been knocked upside the head by fatigue. But I promise I will make my way to all of your blogs in the coming days.

Ho-Ho-Ho-ping for a Christmas

The December sky

is bleak,

bleak to the homeless soul

seeking a sheltered corner

in which to 

pass the night.

The jingle of

the Christmas bells

jangle his nerves

and ring false

in ears

that are listening

for someone to say:

"Come in, you are worthy."

Of course, this photo breaks my heart. 

Humans can at least access services 

and try to get some help, but animals 

are helpless, and they dont get a vote 

about being on the street.

However, that furry creature's love

may very well be

the most devotion this young person

has ever known. 

Sunrise over the Serengeti

google image

Climb in.
Put your leg up and over,
use the ropes, good,
find your spot.

As we lift up into the sky,
swing your gaze to the east,
and let the magic begin.

Know that there 
has never been 
a more beautiful moment
than being here, 
right now,
watching the sun rise
above the  early morning plains.

flickr.com

At Poets United, Ella has set us a task for Wonder Wednesday:  to write about a place in such a way that others can guess its location. This is a trip I have enjoyed vicariously, as my friend made it, and thought of me when she was there.

You all guessed it......Check out Lynette's fantastic photography over at Imagination Lane. She happens to have some fantastic shots of animals in the Serengeti posted right now:)

Sunshine

The Sunshine Coast

It was eight in the morning
when the telephone rang.

My store on the ocean
had burned
down to the ground.
There was nothing left.

My mother cancelled going to work,
and poured herself "a stiff one". 
I was in numbness mode,
stoic, the way I receive all bad news.

The insurance company
viewed it as a suspicious fire,
(and it was,
no doubt about it, 
a suspicious fire.)
They suspected the man in my life.
So no payment,
no return of my investment,
and even my personal belongings
were apparently not covered.

I had to leave the Sunshine Coast.

This time starting over from scratch 
was truly from scratch.

But I lightened my load considerably
by not taking the "boyfriend" with me.
And the baby who was born weeks later
brought the sunshine 
back with her,
when she arrived.

Fireblossom, over at Real Toads, has asked us to write about Disasters. My only problem: which one to choose. Here is Disaster 101, which taught me some harsh realities.