Tag Archives: nature


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Photo credit: http://www.how-to-draw-funny-cartoons.com/cartoon-shark.html

Words, like knotted muscles,
tense. Wonder if you can feel the
letters jumbling together, backing
up in your throat.

What makes you think I towers
over me? A capital letter? Maybe
you forgot I have one, too. My
name starts with it.

Sounds, like maddened hornets,
rise. Do they sting as they leave
your mouth? Nah, not worried.
Got my antihistamine.

That cacophony, though. Man,
what noise – hard to hear over
pollution rushing through underground
sewers, levels rising.

You forget that my Atlantic is
bigger than your filth. Despite your
spills, it thrives. Creating life in abundance,
cancelling out shore lined trash.

Crashing waves drown out your my and
mine. Washing out to sea your selfish salt
tears and empty beer bottles, bobbing in
blue black riptides.

Treasures remain – handpicked shells with
sunset curves and fragile skeletons of small
creatures. Windblown hair of a tiny one and
a taller one. Even sharks lose their teeth.


Tide Lines

red tide a

You visit me when the rains come.
Sliding in through the rising torrents
beating my windows, in the water
swirling around my ankles.

You can’t help yourself.

There’s something about crushing
waves that are a part of you which make
her eat sand, another’s eyes red from stinging
salt water, one more her heart aching from being
crashed into again and again.

Your wake leaves behind brown tide
lines with dirty foam, crushed shells,
sand dollars in pieces.


Beach & Beauty

Certain places are so beautiful that it’s hard to believe they exist until we experience them firsthand. Someday, I will sit on a secluded beach like this one and be awed by it’s loveliness.

Siesta Key

A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets.
~Gloria Stuart






Without encountering manure and decay, we wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate a beautiful garden. We could plant seeds without preparing the soil. We could randomly drop them onto the ground without creating tiny holes and covering them up. We could forget to water them and pray for rain. We could wish that the sun wouldn’t bake them before they take root.

We could hope the seedlings that do sprout will survive without fertilizer. We could, because of convenience, make a pathway through them and believe that, despite our trampling, they will live. We could think that we will enjoy a great harvest if we just let them be. We could let our rakes, shovels and spades collect rust in the shed because gardens don’t really need muscle. We could let the weeds grow so tall and become so invasive that they begin to choke our plants.

Or we could get on our knees. We could get dirty. We could till the ground. We could carefully place them one by one in furrows and pat the soil on top of them. We could drag the watering can over again and again–no matter how cumbersome–and soak them.

We could plant them in a location where they will get just the right amount of sun. We could create a compost heap, be patient, try to ignore the smell and shovel black gold over them so they could thrive. We could go out of our way to take the longer path and walk around them. 


We could hope for a brilliant harvest but not expect perfection without any damage from pests or fungus. We could put our backs into it and use the tools we have to assist our baby shoots. We could repeatedly grab, pull and tug at those invasive weeds that threaten to overwhelm our plants. We could do all of these things if our garden is meaningful to us.

If we have even a speck of faith that the sun will come up each day, that falling waters quench thirst, that dirt–while making us feel unclean–can be washed off, our gardens will appear beautiful to us. We will see the loveliness and color as others see it.


And when we are too tired to plant, nurture, dig, pull, water, we will remember that all gardeners have periods when they get stuck on their knees in the mud or fall face down.  We could lay there for a while. Get a little strength back. Then we could try to stand or we could reach out for strong hands to pull us up.

We could begin to plant again–until we figure it out how it all works and how many seasons it takes to get it right. Eventually, we will harvest blossoms of success.


Lately, I haven’t written much here. Not because words have eluded me but because life has been a deluge.

I have been umbrella-less, soaked, face upturned, eyes closed and experiencing a light drizzle matting down my hair. Other moments, being subjected to stinging, pelting torrents.

In between the tumultuous extremes, I have felt warmth breaking through the lumpy, gray clouds. The sensation of sunlight on my eyelids that have caused them to fly open.

When I have looked up through dampened lashes, I have glimpsed rainbows. Day after day after day. Not one or two or three, more like five or six. Extravagant jewels in the skies. At times, only a fragment of multi-colored hues, but rainbows just the same.

I have savored them, letting my gaze remain fixed on their transparent beauty. My emotions have soared amidst the slowly moving skyscape, flitting here and there, bathed in flecks of violet and indigo.

A sense of hope has permeated my spirit. There is no shaking it off, no angry skies that can blanket it, no lightening zig zags that can electrocute it.  Anticipation remains, expectant, receptive to whatever it is that is now concealed by a watery, dribbling mist.