The Journey

 

Boulton Bridge trail forest

Sometimes the path I walk upon

is bathed in golden sun,

Meanders through bright meadows

Where pure streams of water run.

Sometimes a fog obscures the view,

And rocks and thorns prevail,

The gradient makes progress slow,

Or rings with rain and hail.

Both are crucial to my road,

Both must have their place -

To one, I owe refreshment,

The other, strength and grace.

So whether I am stepping light

Or struggling as I roam,

I know each bend and every climb

Will bring me closer home.

The Break

 

Upper Kananaskis Lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paddles skim on liquid glass,

Sky checks her reflection;

Rocky shores with wooden doors

Display her pure complexion.

Hands of Time, I snap you here,

To break your counting power,

Cram a lifetime’s thirsty soul

Into this sacred hour.

 

 

When Columbines Cry

columbine tear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When columbines cry

their sorrows,

reduced to silvered pearls,

slide down emerald cheeks,

trace Earth’s veins,

disappear beneath quilted soil

and sleep

until they rise

again.

 

 

 

 

 

Wings

young gull

 

His love was a fledgling -

awkward in its moulting,

a pupation of sorts.

His grasp of her essence

floundered in the reeds

where others moved sure;

progress screeched

and twittered, juvenile

in proportion and quality.

But true love has a way

of making a man;

where finesse was lacking,

perseverance found flight -

I still see them soaring, now and then,

where time and age cannot clip their wings.

 

Storage

cherryblossoms.jpg

 

Arms and soul flung wide,

She welcomes the Sun -

Long-lost Lover -

Breathing in his fragrance,

Memorizing his smile

For the cloudy days to come