Dried Flowers In A Seasonal Antique Jar

Dried flowers in winter’s light— brightened by an antique jar.

Flowers picked in the fall, after waiting all summer, to bloom—

Jar dug up, on the other side

of the “tell tale” opening in the stonewall;

an old, late 18-hundreds’s dump, left there —

Many lifetimes’ ago.

I go about my seasonal chores,

I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.

You never do.

My soul curls up in intimacy on the frosted windowsill

Embracing the jar of age; having kept its beauty

 and displaying with pride, its content.

Teach me your resilience, your beauty

From your past, to the presence.

 

I find hope’s secret smile

 In your colors of dried flowers

in winter’s reflection held in my antique jar.

(Helping me understand all the promises, winter carries.

From it’s off Spring, to this coming year’s honeymoon…to its encore.

 

Shorter days and longer nights cannot sustain its post

Against the emergence of summer— and longer days.

 

Unannounced by frost melting into dew

the first wave of spring—

Then, trumpeted through picnics and summer parades—

And, the last wave leaves,

with colorful banners exiting through Fall.)

I sketch this last season’ thoughts— dried flowers

reflecting winter’s delight— smiling this evening,

Looking forward to another beautiful tomorrow;

As reflected in an Antique jar.

I go about.

I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.

You never do.

Until I put you out where we first left

And clean the jar again, in late May.

Charcoal and colored pencil sketch by R.K. Garon

 

 

 

In Each Changing Tide

Beach sifting through my hand,

Flowing, streaming, gathering gravity settling in the sand;

Thought and mood changes from grain to grain.

Perils and adventures, rising and falling again and again,

From one position to the next, as all things change

From false to truth- as a true soul steadily remains

In each sunset, in each full moon, in each new sunrise,

I Become the sand released from my hand, rolling and anchoring myself

In each changing tide.

 

Photo: Google images

 

Feeling like a dandelion rose

As I was younger, the lawn looked beautiful

I worked hard. Pushing

The spacious green against the woods

Without fatigue.

 

Accented by the fresh scent

Of cut grass

I would go to the edge

Look into the woods

 

Step in, walk a bit

Then sit

To enjoy the view.

Especially looking through

 

The trees passed the lawn

Leading to our home

Adorned

With the flowers of youth.

 

As I get older, I do less.

The trees are creeping

In along with

The weeds,

 

They’re taking over the lawn,

Making it easier

 Though, to take my walk

To the edge of the woods,

 

To step in and sit with

Sweet melancholy;

Looking past the small lawn

Feeling like a dandelion rose  

 

Seeing an empty house

Having flowered and gone

To seed.

 

Winter’s Ballet

The snow is easy, it just falls

on several notes                                                       

played by the wind.

 

In between the trees

winter’s first appearance

 swishes like a skirt, across the yard.

 

Harmony

in commotion,

in all those exclamations

 

innocent and clean. I

watch the ballet

and listen

 

to an orchestra unseen.

                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It is said that King Ajastashatru had strong imprints for understanding emptiness, which was activated in the following way: one day, he invited Manjushri for a meal and was just about to offer him a very fine garment he had made ready, when Manjushri disappeared. Feeling very disappointed, Ajatashatru put on the garment himself and momentarily also disappeared. As a result of this he gained the understanding of emptiness.”

 Geshe Sonam Rinchen