I came across my old summer camp trunk in the attic.
Inside were thick folders, tied with sky-blue velvet ribbons.
I knew what lay within:
pencil crayon drawings of my blond cocker spaniel, seagulls at the beach, ducks on the pond, and my younger brother in his Mountie costume.
But my favorites were the paper doll fashions–
wedding gowns painted in soft watercolor, headdresses with sunbursts and roses, crowns and tiaras, and Della Robbia wreaths laden with flowers and fruit.
I made them on rainy Sunday afternoons.
They were shown to no one.
I wasn’t waiting for praise or advice.
The making was enough.
Each dress belonged to an imagined life I carried quietly, as tenderly as a child carries a small secret.
Years later I showed them to my daughters.
Already, they were better artists than I had ever been.
They smiled, admired them, but declined to add another dress to the collection.
Perhaps, one day, a grandchild will untie the blue ribbons,
Count the white horses you meet on the way, Count the white horses, child day after day, Keep a wish ready for wishing – if you Wish on the ninth horse, your wish will come true.
I saw a white horse at the end of the lane, I saw a white horse canter down by the shore, I saw a white horse that was drawing a wain, And one drinking out of a tough: that made four.
I saw a white horse gallop over the down, I saw a white horse looking over a gate, I saw a white horse on the way into town, And one on the way coming back: that made eight.
But oh for the ninth one: where he tossed his mane, And cantered and galloped and whinnied and swished His silky white tail, I went looking in vain, And the wish I had ready could never be wished.
Count the white horses you meet on the way, Count the white horses, child, day after day, Keep a wish read for wishing – if you Wish on the ninth horse, your wish will come true.
I dug my hands into the cold, moist soil, dark with iron-stained oak leaves, geraniums collapsed into themselves, the soft wreckage of mulch returning to its first idea.
There were celandine and verdigris succulents stained with bluish grey, swollen with the calm confidence of continuing. They rose from cuttings I gathered last season– still busy, even now, making life.
As I knelt there, I thought– does the one who never tends a plant miss this small astonishment, this unannounced miracle, or is it enough to stand back, hands clean, and love the beauty without knowing how deeply it must be touched to appear?
I once believed in fairy tales, in love so vast, so bright, A love that soared on golden wings and lit the darkest night. I dreamed of hands that knew my own, of hearts that beat the same, Of whispered vows in starlit hush, of love that burned like flame.
Yet time wove shadows in my path, and love became a ghost, A wistful wish, a fleeting dream, a ship without a coast. I wandered through the quiet years, through echoes soft and thin, Not knowing love was biding time, still waiting to begin.
And then—you came, like summer rain, like dawn upon the sea, A love so deep, so fierce, so true, it woke the soul in me. No fleeting spark, no passing storm, no whisper in the air, But something strong as ancient oaks, as certain as a prayer.
The love of ballads, sonnets bright, the love that poets weave, The love of kings and wayard knights, of hearts that won’t deceive. A love where laughter, wild and free, is laced with tender sighs, Where every glance is poetry, where longing never dies.
So here we stand, with hands entwined, where fate and dreams align, A love reborn, a tale retold—forever yours and mine. No more a wish, no more a ghost, no more a fleeting glance, But love, at last, as it should be—our fated, timeless dance.
I have found love again! I am so grateful for each and every glorious moment we spend together!
This year I soared through skies untamed, Where heights were thrilling, dreams unchained. The sunlit peaks, so bold, so near, But shadows lingered – storms appeared.
The winds of change, they howled and roared, And turbulence I so abhorred Shook the wings I thought were strong, Yet somehow, still, I flew along.
The high points glimmer, bright, profound, Moments where my heart unbound. I treasure these, their golden hue, And honor trials I stumbled through.
For every bruise, a lesson learned, Through fiery paths, resilience earned. Not unscathed, but still I stand, A voyager, with faith in hand.
Now as this year’s horizon fades, I pray for softer serenades. A gentle landing, calm and clear, To close this wild, unsteady year.
And may the winds of what’s to come, Bring brighter skies, a kinder sun. For though I trembled, I endured – A stronger soul, a heart assured.
Wishing you all the very best for the holidays and a wonderful 2025! ❤️
In the dappled light of the forest’s edge, He struts, wary, along the bramble’s ledge. His ruby throat, a beacon of flame, Bobs and flickers, untamed, untamed.
Eyes wide with a primal, ancient fear, Each rustle of leaves, each sound draws near. A breeze, a shadow – he freezes, tense, A sentinel poised by a fragile fence.
Down the road, domestic birds parade, Fat and oblivious, in sun-spotted shade. Their fates are sealed, their end well-known, But his is a dance in the wild alone.
Will he endure the frost-kissed nights, And coyotes’ teeth that gleam in moonlight? Or will his feathers scatter, a fleeting trace, Of a noble life in a ruthless place?
No table awaits his wary kind, No cranberry sauce, no sage entwined. Yet the woods hold stories cruel and raw, Where survival bends to nature’s law.
I spied this wild turkey standing alone on my walk today. I have always seen him with his mate and worry that the coyotes may have taken her from him. I hope he can find a good hiding spot in the woods tonight!
On Hallowe’en, the earth bears gifts of gold, Pumpkins swell, the squash begins to fold.
The harvest yields its bounty rich and bright, And I give thanks beneath the autumn light.
But as I walk, the shadows start to creep, And whisper secrets that the dark can keep.
For Samhain stirs, the Celtic year’s rebirth, Where ghosts and goblins rise from out the earth.
My mind, so tethered to the harvest’s might, Now feels the phantoms in the night.
The rational speaks of grain and seed, But still, the restless spirits sow their greed.
A headless rider gallops through the gloom, While witches weave their spells beneath the moon.
I walk between these worlds, both rich and strange – The earth’s abundance, and the night’s wild change.
The harvest calls, yet something darker grows, As from the underworld, the cold wind blows.
At this time of year, I feel an eerie presence swirling around me in the darkness on my walk home. As I did in my youth, I can’t help but pick up the pace and finally break into a run!
Upon the highway’s winding course I sped, When, far above, a falcon soared and spun, In widening gyres, a dancer in the sun, The sky its stage, the world beneath it fled, Each sweep, each turn, with majesty it led, The climbing spiral, silent, graceful run, Riding the breeze till earth and sky were one, And all my thoughts were to its freedom wed.
Not mine, the wings that cleave the golden air, Yet in my breast, a strange desire grew- To feel the lift, the warm caress, the rare Delight of flight that to the heavens drew. Not to escape, but for the joy to share A moment’s lightness in the sunlit blue.
Perhaps the joys of my first roller coaster rides and waterskiing around the lake come the closest to the feeling of flight that I craved that day.
I sense the shift, the whispered chill, The tender breath of autumn’s will. Where once the summer’s golden beam, Danced lightly in a wistful dream. Now lingers faint upon the air, A fading warmth, too brief, too rare.
The roses, once in bloom so fair, Now bow their heads in quiet prayer. Their petals fall like summer’s tears, While winds begin to wake my fears. The squirrel gnaws on apples bright, Then leaves them, half-consumed, in flight.
The clothes, once crisp beneath the sun, Hang limp, their drying days near done. No longer do they flutter light, But cling, as if a ghost at night. I stand in stillness, heart grown sore, For summer passed, and nothing more.
I did not seize the season’s cheer, Nor dance beneath the skies so clear. Now autumn comes, with somber grace, To steal the warmth I can’t replace. And yet, I brace for colder days, Winter’s chill in a frost-bound haze.
I spotted a California quail while walking in the woods today – a last offering, perhaps, of the summer season.
Satin & Sand 