Here I am, listening to the rustling of the breeze outside, and seeing through the window the sun striking the uppermost leaves of the trumpet vine along my back fence.
Earth, this portion of you I inhabit is blessed with greenery, vast clear skies, blue mountains, a flat, lazy river.
Leaning in, I notice my neighbour's gardenias still blooming as we head into winter; I see that the young magpies have become adult; I welcome the ibis leisurely stalking my street.
Listing my gratitudes is easy here; I simply look around, listen, embrace you, Earth.
Offering up thanks for being here is something I do often, daily, at least once a day.
Here I am, contemplating the clarity of winter sunshine. Earth, you continue to surprise me, even with the same old. Leaning in, I want you to hold me like a mother. Listing gratitudes, some are selfish (I don't have dark skin). Offering white guilt is not useful. What of awareness, prayer, solidarity, lifted voice?
A bit of a segue? I don't think anything is a segue at the moment. All thoughts lead, naturally and inevitably, back to George Floyd and the protests. There is simply nowhere else they could possibly go.
Here I am, sleepy, putting off going to bed. Earth, you are quiet tonight. The dark is deep. Leaning in, I start to hear the deeper silence. Listing gratitude — the speed of sound, the roof over my head, a comfortable place to sit. Offering my eyelids closing, caring for myself by going to bed now.
in my yard
the intruder stands
with bold gaze
claiming ownership –
this tiny lizard
I look out through the glass door.
A baby water dragon stands proud
in the rain-soaked yard, gazing back.
I turn, grab my camera. In that moment
it disappears, I’m focused on an empty spot.
I still see the vivid defiance, the ownership.
'We must stay positive!' many exhorted, as fires destroyed much of my country. I found such advice intensely annoying. What, play for the sinking of the Titanic? And anyway, I felt I was only capable of dark, despairing poems. Then one wise friend advised me to find small things to still love about the world and write of them, so as not to pass even more despair to others. I couldn't at first; then, finally, turning to micropoetry seemed to offer a way.
(I've decided I like the cherita best on this occasion, and am making resolutions to use it more often.)