Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Tag
I’m eighty-five—
though the number sits beside me
more than inside me.
Some mornings I rise feeling sixty,
still curious, still willing to wander.
At night I dream in the language of thirty,
doors still opening, roads still unnamed.
And sometimes—without apology—
seventeen returns, grinning.
Saguaro Morning In Colored Pencil — Image by kenne
The mountains hold the background in cool blues and violets,
while the sunrise burns softly at their edges.
In the foreground, the saguaros stand rooted and calm,
their forms rendered in layered greens and ochres.
The whole image feels suspended
between night and day—
between observation
and memory.
Sonoran Spring Wildflowers — Image by kenne
Along the trail,
the desert wildflowers arrive quietly—
yellow, violet, white—
as if the desert, after months of restraint,
has decided to speak
in small bursts of color.
Dead Nurse Tree at Sunrise — Image by kenne
I can’t prove it—
But these young Saguaro cactus
stand there, steady in their twenties,
as if the dead nurse tree still lingers in them—
a memory of shade,
a shelter that did its work
and then let go.
Greater Earless Lizard in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
No ears to catch the wind,
yet it listens—
through heat, through shadow,
through the tremble of ground beneath it.
Balanced on rock,
it belongs more completely
than anything that passes.
Eastern Collard Lizard Sunning in the Morning Sun — Image by kenne
Wind threads canyon walls,
yet the lizard stays anchored—
sun writes on its back.
Dragonfly in Black and White — Image by kenne
brushstroke dragonfly,
spine like a reed in wind—
the artist knew
what the marsh knows:
balance is a brief agreement
Hiking into the Morning Sun — Image by kenne
The desert does not hurry us.
Even the sun takes its time
climbing the ridge,
spilling light into every hollow.
We hike, and something in us
loosens—
as if the day is not something to conquer,
but something to meet
with open arms.
Red-tailed Hawk Over Tucson Skies — Image by kenne
Morning lifts on quiet thermals,
and there you are—
a single intention
written against the light.
Not striving, not hurried—
just the slow agreement
between feather and wind.
If I could learn anything today,
let it be this:
how to trust what carries me.
Sonoran Blue Sky — Image by kenne
The sky lays itself down
across the mountains
like a second world—
blue poured into stone.
No sermon here,
just light telling rock
what it already knows.
Brown Pelican Taking Off — Image by kenne
There’s a hard-earned lift in him—
not the easy grace of a gull.
He runs the length of the lake to get free,
one wing touches into a broken rhythm.
That last touch, that trailing wing—
that’s the past reaching up, then letting go.
Raseate Skimmer Dragonfly — Image by kenne
In motion, it measures motion—
wingbeats, shadows, the slight wrongness
of something closing in.
Eyes like a net of light
cast in all directions.
Shore Along the Outerbanks — Image by kenne
At the Outer Banks pier—
tide working the posts.
Waves come in
with no plan.
Dune line,
ocean breathing beyond.
Sand moves slowly—
stillness in motion.
Waves break,
and break again.
Nothing carried forward,
nothing left behind.
Honey Bee on Lemon Blossoms — Image by kenne
The lemon tree breathes light,
each blossom a small lantern,
and the bee moves among them
like a keeper of secrets.
What it takes, it gives—
though not to me, not directly.
Still, I stand in the fragrance
feeling included
in a mystery I do not own.
Mailboxes in a Small New Mexico Town — Image by kenne
Each box is a story painted over rust—
names fading, but never gone.
Abuela still checks hers at sunrise,
like the sun might bring a letter from yesterday.
We are a people of waiting,
of holding onto envelopes like prayers,
addressed to hope.
