Spring Awakening -- Image by kenne
Along the mountain's winding trail,
Spring scatters blossoms on the breeze.
Purple lupines sway and bow,
While golden poppies light the leaves.
The Santa Catalinas glow
In shades of yellow, red, and blue.
Each blossom is a mountain song,
Brief, bright, and forever true.
Anna's Hummingbird On Nest -- Image by kenne
A branch, a nest, a bird.
Nothing more is needed.
Spider silk binds the walls,
lichen softens the edges.
The Anna's hummingbird rests there,
breathing with the rhythm of the desert morning.
Sonoran Sunset -- Image by kenne
The mountains darken, but above them
red, orange, and yellow gather
like old spirits around a fire,
warming the vast desert silence
one final time before night.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!
Sonoran Spring Wildflowers — Image by kenne
Hiking into the Morning Sun — Image by kenne
Red-tailed Hawk Over Tucson Skies — Image by kenne
Sonoran Blue Sky — Image by kenne
(In November of 2012, Tom Markey and I posted an article, Ecocide Arizona Style — The Cow That Ate The West.
The article was about the disappearing water in the San Simon Valley in southeast Arizona. This poem suggest the verdict is in.)
Ecocide Arizona Style
— kenne
Zerene Cesonia Caterpillar — Photo-artistry by kenne
Morning in the desert garden:
a caterpillar clings to its stem,
eating with the steady rhythm
of breath itself.
Even the sun pauses—
as if it knows a butterfly
is practicing.
— kenne
Sabino Sunrise — Image by kenne
Dawn spills over the mountains
and the giants wake.
Their shadows stretch like old cowboys
after a long night.
No hurry.
No apology.
Just another day
outlasting us all.
— kenne
Cedar Waxwings Arrive Without Announcement — Image by kenne
Soft crests,
yellow-tipped tails—
a small northern fire.
We host them briefly.
The desert offers fruit,
water,
a resting branch.
Hospitality is an old law.
— kenne
Cactus Art Image by kenne
A slight shift of angle—
the needles ignite.
So it is with the soul:
what guards the heart
can also shine.
— kenne
A Sonoran Morning — Image by kenne
Bright sunlight, black tower, white sky.
The blades carve the morning into pieces.
Somewhere a tank fills,
somewhere a man believes
he has mastered this land.
But the wind owns the rhythm,
and the desert keeps the final say.
— kenne
Soaptree Yacca — Image by kenne
Wind scrapes the flats raw.
The yucca holds its green knives
close to the bone of earth.
Bloom is rare.
That’s the point.
In this place
beauty is earned slowly.
— kenne
