River cuts fissures
through prairie, piles up debris --
leaves ruins
that startle us, even Earth,
with their unfolding beauty.

Light filters through leaf
half on, half off the surface --
stained glass
shines over silent pond --
and blesses this place, this day.

Note: This image is from a walk in the woods during my first visit to the Abbey of Gethsemane, where Thomas Merton lived. I hope to be channeling a little bit of his spirit here. 

When buds open,
pedals unwind, split apart,
overlap --
remind us that we, too, bloom
distinct and yet intertwined.

 

Love does not care
if the mirror tells the truth.
It simply sits with
whichever version shows up,
smiles to itself, and nods.

 

Our room cools quickly
when the sun leaves each evening.
We lean now toward
the fire to coax warmth back
from the other side of Earth.

She sets the glasses 
with art -- height, color, shape --
sun rolls off edges
and through transparencies,
then chooses one
                                    just for me.

Note: This is one of Georgia O'Keefe's kitchen shelves, which looked so much like my grandmother's.