Mountains have a strange allure –

drawing me in, yet alarming me with

hidden vastness. People disappear

and are sometimes never found.

Rushing water flows – unceasingly –

always moving in haste.

Perpetual mist rises – softly frosting valleys,

both broad and narrow, with icy white.

Gentle ridges and steep peaks flow seamlessly –

one from the other in wavelike undulations.

Always beguiling and mysterious, but full of peril for

those not savvy to her greatness.

Inspiration…

have I run dry?

I feel moved by nothing – don’t have the push to write.

I cry every so often – even that doesn’t make sense – I don’t know when it’s coming.

I’m trying to focus on me for a bit – let these feelings of sadness dissipate – use themselves up –

leave me alone…

But, then they sneak back in – no warning – just tears.

I guess I loved my Mom, admired my Mom, learned from my Mom, in ways I don’t always realize.

But, they’re there in subtle ways – sometimes hard to perceive – my lust for life and the people in it,

my love of animals, my appreciation for all kinds of music,  but, my love of nature? No… that came from

somewhere further back in my DNA. My Mom loved the flowers I grow, but she didn’t want to get

her hands dirty! My love of color and the eye I have for it didn’t come from her either.

It has made me appreciate just how one of a kind we all are – I contain bits of her, bits of

Dad, and many bits from countless others who came before…

Thoughts of her move my mind in myriad directions.

Path uncharted

Wandering aimlessly

Observing thoroughly

Thinking ceaselessly

Creating relentlessly

Imagining always

Yearning perpetually

Ever a work in progress – perfection never attained.

Always beginning anew…

Late summer roadside offers its own allure:

Goldenrod – a riotous explosion – nature’s fireworks,

Joe Pye Weed – rosy mounds of bloom, showing off for all.

Ironweed an amethyst profusion of artistry,

and cardinal flowers in crimson colored  perfection.

Humble asters, in shades of white and purple, perfect

circles of fringe, heartily adorning yards and roadsides.

Flax – azure as the sky above – true blue in a flower.

and, oh, I almost forgot the thistle – how could I? It’s perfect in purple.

Look beyond the overgrown, turning brown ordinariness and

notice late summer roadside exquisiteness.

Here I am – stuck –

I don’t know…

what to think

what to feel

what to do

How do I process this?

My Mom, one of the most alive and vibrant of women

has been reduced to a shadow of her former self –

she can’t speak

she can’t move

she can’t eat

she can’t drink

she can’t take care of elimination.

She is skin and bones.

She must be turned every 2 hours.

She is dependent on others for everything.

She is a shadow of her former self.

How is this fair? – Yes, I know, life’s not fair,

but how can her life end so insensitively?

Where is mercy when it is so fiercely required?

Driving with the windows down makes me feel so free.

I  hear the whirring, clicking, clacking, and sweet steady beat of insects;

the scree of  hawks, the music of songbirds, and

the raucous caw of  crows.

I smell the river’s perfume, the earthy smell of the woods, and the

sweet smell of new mown hay.

I feel the warmth of the sunshine, the heavy humid air, and wind blowing across my skin

and through my hair.

Windows down, radio up – I’m ready for the freedom of the road.