What would the mama
chicks say if they could see their
decorated eggs?

I am surrounded

by grace and blessings

mostly in the form

of kind, smiling angels

who make

miracles

from cloth and thread.

These angels enfold me

and I'm grateful

for every fiber

of my being.

And theirs.

neon petals dot
the fence line, all glistening,
all heralding March

Mighty and tall,
I stand watch in solitude,
listening to strains of Enya
coming from the kitchen,
her voice keeping syncopated time
with the slow chug of my Lady Kenmore.
It's grey and drizzling outside
and I am felting wool:
transforming individually woven
wooly stitches
of soft jewel colors.
I diligently keep watch,
transfixed,
periodically dunking my hand
into the sudsy brew,
waiting for the soggy lump
to morph into something
else.

It is not often that I
orchestrate transformation.

More often,
I sit,
wee
and inconsequential,
watching
nature
take
its
course.

forsythia hides
behind magnolia branches
as springtime explodes

a bright blinking bus
creeps down my road, welcoming
raincoated munchkins

smudged and tentative
morning fog makes everything
familiar different

out on the deck, I
study lines of varying
size and thicknesses

spring, awakening
cloaked in soft fog, the backyard
all is calm for now

before night arrived,
daylight left in a soft glow
of prismacolor

simple yet complex
color, pattern, direction
blanket of windmills

saturated blue
branches raised up in a show
of nature, praising

one among many:
a snug fit, but with room to
breathe, part of a whole

Mom had us over
for dinner the other night
but the food had eyes

aqua reverie
transports me to days of youth
Caribbean bliss