Thursday, January 15, 2015
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Winter woods are gray and silent,
Soft, and deep, and frosty,
In pine and spruce scented air,
Ice crystals cling like jeweled lichen,
Birch trees shining silver against the other pewter trees,
Branches all askew,
Reaching for the sky,
With green draped hemlocks
Dancing in the glen,
The whistling winds sings
Winter’s here again.
The tiny trumpet call of nuthatches
Breaks the woodland’s sleep,
And it’s then that I remember,
“I have promises to keep.”
So softly I pad back
Down this winter woodland trail,
To the waiting warmth of my winter cottage,
To my winter woodland home.
Kathie Adams Brown (12-30-14)
Saturday, December 20, 2014
|Photo of Balanced Rock at Chiricahua National Monument courtesy of Donna Simonetti|
I am going hiking
To a place I’ve never been,
To the snow covered Chiricahuas
To find my place of Balance
I can hear my footfalls,
I can feel the soft snowflakes falling on my face,
I feel the others with me,
Ancient spirits walking
This same trail
Seeking their soul’s moment,
Seeking and finding their balance
In this place so far from manmade things,
In this place so wild,
One is reborn
And made new.
I hear Raven calling,
Black wings against the white,
He is sharing his wisdom
And guiding my way.
With each footfall, I hear the chorus of garooing
Sandhill cranes emerge briefly in the shifting gray clouds above
Then fade away like phantoms in the mist,
While I watch each snowflake fall softly on the earth,
And coat the ground around me, erasing my steps
I follow the trail through lichen covered boulders
To the place of Balance
In these eternal heights
And I hold on.
I hold on to this thought
while the mask covers my face
and I slip into a dream
beneath the surgeon’s knife.
~Kathie Adams Brown (December 20, 2014)
Friday, November 21, 2014
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Monday, September 22, 2014
So, where will we be when all the butterflies have gone?
When we have harvested, and sprayed and obliterated
Every meadow and unplowed field?
What if there is no fluttering in summer, no metamorphoses happening?
What if there is no renewal and transformation? Will all hope then die?
Will we, as a human race, forget serendipity and joy and the ephemeral pleasure
Of a fragile thing with wings?
~Kathie Adams Brown (September 19, 2014)
This poem is dedicated to my friend, Roy and his blogpost: A Butterfly Day
Thursday, September 18, 2014
The chimney swifts are gone,
and they took their cheerful voices,
I hear cicadas whine
With a sound that spells the end,
The sky is faded blue
By the blazing summer sun,
Maple leaves are tinged with red,
The first hint of the coming Fall,
The scent of new mown hay
Lies heavy in humid air,
It is the end of summer,
--the waning days of summer,
--I’ll say good-bye to summer,
Until it comes next year.
~Kathie Adams Brown (August 27, 2014)