Waconia

Fall is better for color, texture and poetry. I can see relaxation ahead. We drove out late yesterday, to the town pronounced why-CONE-ee-ah in these parts.


Waconia

The way to Waconia with hills
rolling 'long side to sunset sky
gray-pink and white with azure blue.
Gold never looked so true and rich and live.
This trip on highway 5.
Hills rolling with late harvest
grain and greens
a tree of early autumn mottled patches standard in its show.
Mute-colored texture metered by the bend.
Texture-heavy sections folding
in this evening approach.

A barn.
More a dream of classic
presence than the century stone
to silo base and west wall supports
the boards of gray and many colored coats
most gone. Seems red.
And loft door hinges raked in happy angle.
Orange rust-iron turned to German chocolate brown
the year granddad was ten-years-old.
It has a cupola.
Once a vein long gone
with weather tracking antique hunters.
And a deer could cross the road.
Oh, highway 5.

The way to Waconia with rolling hills.
Did you see the burgundy of oaks,
September reds and graying barn?
It has a cupola and weather vein of dreams.
I saw it once on the way.
Waconia.

The Forest

Some days are better reviewed from another world...

The Forest

A spring rain fell.
But wasn't it yesterday?
Leaves still damp and moss beneath bare feet.
Touch my toes. My knees.
A drop falls down and I look up.
Look up.
Floating through the emerald-green-lit arbor leaves.
Sunlight here before the stars.
I leave.
And drop my hands, my feet,
my limbs like they are laundry in the chute.
I'm free.

I walk the forest floor in dreams
and leave.

The River

After a reading in Stranger by the River by Paul Twitchell and contemplating the passage I took my own journey of soul:

The River

Always the River.
Early Autumn.
Gentle current carries the first yellow leaves
dropped from the willow on the bend.
Turtle slips into the water from a slight crag at the inlet shallows.
Inch-long fish in school turn quickly to show an instant glint of sun
from under the surface near the reeds.
The temperature pleasant with buttoned sleeves.

I listen.

More the breath of God
than a million gallons per second flowing home.
I am sleeping already in the arms of love.
Yes! How could life be more than what it is in this moment?

A Harvest of Time

The morning after shared time with friends at our house yesterday. Now…contemplation and reverie…

Burnished knuckles and polished stone
forever the preparation of home
last grout washed and paint brush stroke
at 3 a.m., the mat.

Reflecting on the days of battle – love of craft
and life by fruits of labor leading up to now.
Relax and heal in gifts of beat receding
The rewards of challenges metered out
By . The passage . Of time .

Do you hear it?
A tone, a tune, a metronome
Punctuation to every breath – the Sound.
First afar – from the roof of end neighbor's yard.
Then in my maple, a chorus of crows
Each call, a phrase replete with memory
and laid to rest in well-made bed
the scent of roses and thorns of rose.
Alarm well-set in pillows.
Muffled.

Yesterday’s crescendo and friends
to open home
and garden harvest in light
a love – resplendent.
Could it ever end?

transforming light

Always the morning and God's love

transforming light

. sun gold green canopy .
. silver maple .
. masters light .
. day shades of blue .
. and mottled .
. by spindle limbs gray .
. sky iris crystallized .
. good morning .
. is love .
. transformed .

© 2007 Ardi Keim 9/1/07 (rev. 12/30/07)