arching branches dripping with perfect minuscule white flowers - lace edged leaves holding morning dew one glistening drop at a time - tender new rose buds blushing pink and crimson and intertwined with dark purple clematis - peonies bursting in a brief riot of magenta glory - breath catching spring beauty so captivating it must have been painted there by monet. then the burst and dazzle and enveloping perfume of summer - euphoria lasting only an instant.

will you think i'm beautiful in autumn - rich with color and life but worn and spent - summer lushness giving way to the inevitable return to the earth?

will you still love me in winter when i am nothing more than a skeleton of myself - offering only the prayer for what may or may not return the same - all parts not equal to the way you once loved them? will you settle a blanket around my roots and gently trim away all that is finished to find what life is hidden inside? will you wait for me - will you stand patiently - quietly - believing i will return - better for this brief respite of stillness and emptiness?

the garden teaches respect for the stillness when sustenance and strength are gathered - trust in the circle that seems to begin in death and rise again - stronger and more resilient - understanding as the sun reaches the pinnacle and without pause begins its descent. when it has dropped beyond experience, beyond warmth and light, it has already begun to rise. there is no end - no beginning - no win or loss - no top or bottom. there is only the circle containing all parts at once - relentless continuation.

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life is a winding trail of rocks and hills and muddy spots almost impossible to navigate - a path of enchanting sunsets over the mountains on pueblo land and warm story time next to a freshly bathed sweet smelling baby who wants to read good night moon one more time. it is making love on the beach in hawaii - too young to be uncomfortable and too reckless to fear getting caught. it is contentment in the morning sun with a hummingbird dancing in the spray of the water hose on your birthday and agonizing fear when your child's fever won't break. it is passing on the youth and beauty and spotlight to your children as you step back fully willing and insistent they take the last piece of pie or sleep in the coziest bed or shine like a star in the black sky.

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the garden is a part of my life i come home to over and over again - along with faith and smiling pets and the sound of sports blaring from the television because it means jim is home and i am not alone. i come home to my books - the smell of dust on worn spines with title after title calling my name in the little town library where i greet the librarians like trusted keepers of my treasures. i come home to baking chocolate chip cookies on my worn out baking sheet that never gets completely clean and seeing my sweet elizabeth and alexander settle in on shaky black counter stools for a glass of milk and one too many warm soft cookies. i come home to the lovely chapel where weekday mass is quiet and reverent and i close my eyes from start to finish and only open them at the end to receive golden sunlight pouring through stained glass. i come home to my peonies and hydrangeas, tulips, butterfly bushes and mountains of lady's mantle and black eyed susans, white montauk daisies and the intoxicating fragrance of pink phlox and butterflies landing on my shoulders. i come home to birds singing outside my windows and neighbors stopping to chat about what kind of mulch i will buy this year or how quickly the kids are growing up or laughing at me for polishing too long on my little red mini cooper.

she steps in quietly - back straight - almost unnaturally so with the neck tilted slightly forward. her eyes quickly take in the room as her smile remains ready for a polite and effusive hello. her hair is short and her clothes are simple faded jeans and a white cotton shirt. at first glance she appears carefree and confidently masculine, but as i look closer i notice the expertly blended highlights in her blond hair - the carefully placed side swept bangs just covering her aging forehead. i notice how the loose shirt has a little tie at the collarbone - painstakingly creating a perfect bow and the waistline is arranged in just the right way to disguise extra weight she has collected through the years. she was beautiful once, i think, and she still feels beautiful when the flaws are discreetly hidden. her expectant look says she is accustomed to being admired - and then she remembers the extra weight and wrinkled forehead and sagging breasts and the smile dims - only momentarily. her head lifts higher - her chin thrusts out defiantly as she steps forward. her manner is calm until i notice her hands - worn but strong and at first giving the impression of courage and noble devotion to hard work. but a closer look discovers the gnawed cuticles and skin picked relentlessly when the calm facade cannot completely hide the searching mind. if i continue to watch the hands will come together to pull at a ragged bit of skin or scratch the frequent itch on the inside of the fingers. she is known in the community for her good deeds - a home cooked meal for the new mother down the block - another collection for the poor - friendly acknowledgement for the cashier at the acme and the pharmacy and the little town library - unwavering commitment to her family. most would never guess the restlessness revealed by her fingernails or the weariness that flickers unexpectedly behind her smile. she is from a culture where the smile is always in place and even in therapy all those years ago she usually walked in with a smile that only dissolved when her face crumbled with tears. but that is in the past. she is in the room now with the smile looking genuine and the hands quiet - the expectancy having passed as she settles into a chair and watches life from a distance.

flower petals on my feet, pretty pink from the cotton candy pink cherry blossoms blowing like snow on a december morning. they catch my attention - remind me to walk softly - careful of crushing the life under my feet. ant soldiers march with fierce determination - teeming throngs hauling bread crumbs tossed casually from last night's supper - bravely avoiding the footfalls of giants. their cities are organized - their work relentless - the beings smaller than a tear carrying loads easily - or at least never giving up. simple lives - work - eat - work - eat - and try not to be washed away by the innocent thoughtless or carefully aimed spray of the long green water hose.

flower petals that took a year to grow - secretly tucked away on brown twigs outside my bedroom window last winter - concealed - the appearance of stillness fooling us into believing in death and endings and silence. but there is no end. motion stops - almost - energy flowing so slowly it cannot be seen - flowing nonetheless - causing life to continue - always with bursts of movement as the bud appears - and frantic quickening as the flower fractures into full bloom with breath-catching, stop and stare beauty. the petals drift without effort -blanketing the grass beneath the tree with a carpet of pink - resting undisturbed until big feet with painted toenails and bunions trample the velvet softness to brown - beauty overlooked by constant motion.

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water, the sky on a clear day, my daughter's eyes, the living room couch, the way i feel when i miss my family, the spirit of calm spiritual awareness and artistic personality. my favorite color, the one i wear most and still love on my wedding china - the color i want to paint my kitchen to perfectly set off the adobe of the brick wall and terra cotta tile and bordeaux counter top.

not muddy or soft or country muted - not the baby boy or sickeningly sweet kind - but the clean color of a clear autumn sky with no pollution or fog - no muddy cloudiness. the kind that is electric and energizing and clear to the bottom in bermuda. the color of my aquamarine earrings - just cleaned - when i have a tan. paul newman's eyes - johnny and olivia's eyes against their summertime white blond hair. old fashioned hydrangea blossoms in full fresh firmness.

blue - the color i want to paint in a breathtaking painting of birds soaring and light pouring in and serenity filling me to the brim - overflowing like a waterfall in the jungle.

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trees - magnificent and solid - branch after sturdy branch offering a stepladder to the sky. seasons change - flowers wither - leaves die before our eyes. but the tree is resolute - eternally solid and elegant - facing harsh winds that rip leaves and crack branches - it remains unwavering. unplanned openings allow the family of chipmunks to make a safe home - straining branches hold firm as the nest is built twig by twig to shelter baby sparrows - cradled with mouths open to receive nourishment - new shoots of tender green offer life to hungry babies in the forest. to produce exquisite fruit year after year, never tiring - to present beauty in every season - from the golden green of early spring to the lush fullness of summer fruit to the autumn reds and yellows - never apologizing for the changes - never lessening from season to season. even standing in stark resplendence with no shelter to soften the elements - no respite from cold and ice - standing tall and silent and composed - never failing to follow the light.

i am a tree

gnarled roots anchored in earth

scarred receiver of life

gashes weeping sweet nectar

born of weather and time

unfolding toward the light

early morning sky, quietly inviting me to a new day - clean - fresh - unblemished with sad regrets - offering everything. just waking from deep sleep - eyes blinking open - breathless anticipation. waiting for the sun - the dictator who says get up get going work accomplish do write shower talk listen feed the dogs vaccuum the floor get some exercise pull the weeds wash the clothes turn on the today show and find out what needs to be worried about today.

but before the sun is the stillness - the call to do nothing but watch and discover the endless new day that will be followed by another and another - world without end.

early morning sky inviting me to create life anew - bravely without fences or borders - without expectations and responsibilities --- open as wide as the sky and deep as the moon - as peaceful as the soft gray and pink of first light. all will be well, it says - it is a new day - filled with opportunities to giggle - forgive - stretch - eat the bounty of green earth - drink in the cool fresh wind - grant freedom to the words leaping from my pen. a beginning, a life to be lived completely in this single day, the whole universe reflected in this one sweet still moment as the birds awaken and call to me to come out to play - forget the chores - forget the news - forget the dirty floor and unmade bed and come outside to dance with the dawn and direct the chorus of birdsong - to watch the day begin to live.

i'm desperate for color - long sweeps of sky blue washing into deep ocean water and sunshine, aqua and turquoise like the rings made by the pueblos, brilliant fiery orange the color of sunset or pink that appears before the dawn. i've been living too long with oatmeal and angel's gate, creamy neutral and colors that don't clash. i love vanilla, but it gets sweet and unconfrontational and white and safe. i crave a burst of watermelon juice and lime sorbet - raspberry straight from the vine - warm orange and yellow peppers with a layer of dust on their skin. I need light and juice and flavor - delicious from morning till night - reflecting the daylight with streaks and shimmers of sunglass-wearing brightness and warm evening richness. i write so much about childhood when i loved climbing trees and picking plump red cherries and rolling downhill forever on the grass - when sunshine was a call to live and live and live some more, not in my head, but in my senses - in the feel of the dew on my bare feet in the early morning - the soft, sweet and slick coat of a newborn puppy - the asphalt on the palms of my hands when i fell off my bike. exploring in the woods and the dark shade of the forest, bright green moss alive on the dead trees, soft and fairy-like in its delicate perfection. the feel of the grapevine held securely in my dirty-finger nailed hands, just before taking off - stepping from the ledge - no fear of falling - only the exhilaration of flying free - soaring groundless for a brief moment. then i lived in taste and touch and free expression of every joy - tears flowing unrestrained when the mini-bike crashed and the blister covered half my small leg. tears and heartbreak unchecked when our puppy - who had not yet had the chance to grow up - chased a car and slid under the wheel and died before my eyes while daddy grilled hamburgers and my heart broke apart with sadness. i'll get you another puppy the man said. he must have had no children - or maybe no heart. eat your supper kids my parents said as tears slipped down their cheeks before they had the chance to wipe them away and be strong for us. i lived out loud then - wild child - feeling everything, just on the surface and also deeper - laughing and touching and hugging and running like an animal - thinking only enough to get me from one experience to another. when did i stop sensing and living in my physical body? when did the relentless mind take over, analyzing, contemplating, studying the possibilities but never acting on them because of fear? laziness? because i had to stop jumping in puddles and searching for the pot of gold and instead put on pantyhose and pumps and try to remember to keep my elbows off the table. i am a mother after all - have to be responsible - a good example - teach my children to be careful and thorough and do all their homework and open the door for the teacher. i have also taught them to explore, to laugh out loud at life when they might want to cry - to love themselves in all their raw imperfection. but have i taught them to be free - to throw caution to the wind so they can live extremely - completely - never missing a single baby bird peeking over the nest or a patch of violets springing from the dirt, oblivious to anything but life and joy and laughter?