Releasing the body backwards
into pool water slackens limbs
as the spine presses them into duty.

The sun’s hands cup my face
one last time before she lets herself fall
behind the plateau of Signal Mountain.

Roses cascade flowerets over the fence.
Magnolia buds hustle branches,
perfume my nose.

Will the crepe myrtle redeem itself this year,
tomato plants’ golden blooms
push out a bushel of fruit?

I dive through pristine water to the bottom
for pennies, surface to the smiling shark
thermometer bobbing up and down.

Hydrilla, kudzu of lakes and rivers,
forms an impenetrable mass,
barring fish and humans.

Hovering above hostas the little stone bird
links sky to earth.  The American flag
hugs the pole and absorbs weather.

Blue sky fades to light gray.
Solar lights flicker their first flame.
Cicadas tune fiddles in surrounding woods.

One mile below, worms tunnel
and thrive an abundant life.
Braille of existence without light.

Soon the invisible sun gilds the moon,
forgiving night’s growing shadows.
Who is luckier than the stars?

-Helga Kidder

Chasing elk off the ridge in hail and lightning,
shorts stick to thighs.
                                 We descend

to the sing-song squelch of shoes over slick logs,
crisscross cliff bands, slog for miles

along the river until we end up in the last bit of sun
sprawled in mist rising from a gravel parking lot

where we dream of wood smoke, shower soap
and steam, the cold crisp pop of hops, pop and sigh

of red sauce smothering ravioli.
                                             Where we dream
of collapsing into a circular house

surrounded by steep valleys rising up to peaks
which rise into towering clouds, and somewhere between

are gaps of sky intoxicating as juniper berry gin.
Soul drunk and punch tired, hitchhiking

out of the wrong drainage at dusk, we dream
this waking dream of descending again, in feet

and inches, tens of thousands, which lead
to the inner edge of life;
                                    where over and over

we chase elk of the ridge as brown dust rises
and a black cloud descends

and the ground turns white from hail.

- Cameron Scott

On Monday morning my brother
preaches Isaiah.
His voice goes on, through the phone,
about the Bible.
Not like the droning of big black flies in summer
but a clarinet playing a tune
I can’t quite follow.
From my kitchen table I’m distracted
by a redheaded woodpecker
working on a stump out beyond the drive.

My brother’s strength comes through God.
Mine too but I don’t wear the button, raise the banner.
He’s working hard on that stump,
probably looking to save my soul.
I wonder if there will be babies.

I ask, ‘what if a person doesn’t know how to read,
can he get the Jesus message any other way?’
Black, some white and that bright red head, beautiful.
I don’t hear the answer,
I’m distracted by my baby’s coo.
She’s not hungry, just baby talk.
I’m smiling.
He says the end of the world is coming.
I find that believable most days,
but today is as clear and bright
as the ting from pure crystal
I believe we will be granted another day.

-Linda Gould

Unearthing the dandelion

from a spray of pansies

The white globe pappus parachutes into air

The lore of one whisper,

And a wish disperses

Into the wiles of wind

The dandelion’s many monikers:

Lion’s tooth, wild endive, puffball, telltime,

So many names to carry our hunger,

Among the plans of potted pansies,

Weeding the dander is the gardener’s crime

I leave the telltime rampage as is,

Let its dander dissipate

Like a wish

Gone wild as weeds.

- Laurie Kuntz

Hummingbirds sip passion flowers
in a world lit with beauty,
green iridescent light shimmering
around their soft feathers
in the morning’s first light.
The ancestors have descended to bone,
but their spirit sparkles in the world
of flying stars.   A promise
inside the light of the petals
of a yellow rose.

Come to the place
where the ocean crashes against the night
after traveling thousands of miles
in a world of dream.
Listen to the visions that whisper
inside the ripple of morning,
passion flowering inside the cadence
of every warbling songbird.

The spirit of the wise ones
who have walked this planet for millions of years
awaken in every flower,
calling your name to listen
to the song you remember
where memory whispers
and shimmers in the light.
Wake up now, singing inside
each moment of beauty.

Diane Frank

It’s early
in the morning
or very late at night
and I am either
half full or half empty
of consciousness
depending on how you
look at it

-Paul Stokstad