Archive for the ‘Tanuri Ridge’ Tag
Rainbow Over Tanuri Ridge (08/17/26) — Image by kenne
The Rainbow
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
— William Wordsworth
Gila Woodpecker on the Patio Tree — Image by kenne
there he is again—
clinging sideways to the tree
like a bad decision
that won’t let go.
tap-tap-tap—
no rhythm, no apology.
and I laugh,
because that’s life, isn’t it?
just you
and your stubborn little beak
against something harder.
Tanuri Ridge Sunset — Image by kenne
A sunset with thin,
trembling clouds—
the universe painting
without hurry.
Stand still long enough,
and you will feel chosen.
— kenne
Cooper’s Hawk in the Patio Olive Tree Near the Bird Feeder– Image by kenne
The feeder is our promise to small lives.
The hawk is the answer we cannot control.
When he drops—swift, inevitable—
the air itself seems to close.
Afterward, the patio is ordinary again,
except for the silence that lingers.
— kenne
Patio Nightlight — Image by kenne
A solar jar sits glowing on the patio,
quiet as a candle,
turning leftover daylight
into a soft evening companion.
— kenne
Anna’s Hummingbird, I Think — Image by kenne
Hummingbirds and the Angle of Light
The light deceives—
what was emerald becomes flame,
what was ruby turns to shadow.
You think you see the bird,
but it is the god you glimpse instead—
that quick shimmer between worlds.
They are not creatures of feather alone,
but of transformation,
messengers of the moment
when color forgets its name
and becomes pure presence.
Stand still,
and the air itself begins to sing—
reminding you
that beauty is never the thing seen,
but the seeing.
— kenne
Hose Bib — Image by kenne
Hose Bib Metaphor of Life
there’s a small sadness
in calling the plumber
for something you’d have solved
with half a hangover
and the wrong tools
a few years ago.
but the plumber’s a good guy.
he fixes it quick,
smiles,
says it wasn’t a big deal.
I nod, pay him,
–watch him drive off
with my former life
rattling in the back
of his truck.
— kenne
Bougainvillea Time of The Year — Image by kenne
Every morning now
the bougainvillea glows—
a lantern in daylight.
How does it hold so much pink,
so much flame?
I touch one fallen bract on the ground
and feel the whole season
lean closer, whispering:
remember this brightness.
— kenne
Potted Lemon Tree On the Patio — Image by kenne
Some years are stingy.
But not this one.
This year, the branches bowed
with golden lanterns,
each one shining
as though lit from within.
And I, rest among them,
felt forgiven
for every slight worry
I have carried.
— kenne
Thanksgiving Eve On The Patio — Image by kenne
The day rises like a song,
steam lifting from pots,
voices rising in warm tumult.
I thank the earth that fed us,
the sky that watered us,
the invisible threads
that bind our destinies together.
Gratitude walks with me like a brother.
— kenne
Late-Autumn Glow On Our Patio by kenne
Late-Autumn Glow
The air’s gone thin and silver,
but the lemons keep their gold —
small suns refusing dusk,
the tree whispering: hold on.
Sunset Over Tanuri Ridge — Image by kenne
Becoming
Sunsets shouldn’t be taken for granted.
We’ve earned that wisdom.
They aren’t endings, but continuations—
light working through its final argument.
The desert holds its breath.
We’ve both run out of reasons
to explain beauty.
It happens anyway—
the sky goes dark,
and we call it grace.
Not because it lasts,
but because it doesn’t.
Later, inside,
the room fills
with the faint scent
of dust and air,
the residue of light
still on our faces.
You turn away to pour wine.
I watch,
knowing one day
I’ll remember this—
the silence,
the dimming,
the simple act
of not taking it for granted.
Male Cardinal in a Mesquite Tree — Image by kenne
Cardinal flares bright flame,
mesquite shadows bow around—
sunlight says amen.
Morning Glory — Image by kenne
Morning Glory
This morning glory
doesn’t waste time.
She opens up wide at sunrise,
says, “Well, good morning, world,”
like some old neighbor
leaning on the fence.
Gila Woodpecker — Image by kenne
Gila Woodpecker
That busy little thug,
black-and-white suit,
red cap like a bad idea—
he’s at it again,
beak punching neat holes
in my world.
The hummingbird feeder
wasn’t made for him,
but he doesn’t give a damn
about human intention.
Long tongue dips in,
sweet stolen fuel
for the day’s racket.
Call him nosey,
call him thief,
but look closer—
he’s just another desert anarchist,
making do in a place
that gives nothing easy.
And maybe I admire him for it,
this feathered outlaw
living by wit and boldness
reminding me that survival
is never polite.
— kenne
