How often
do we fail to see
What’s right before our eyes?
Like the dancing leaves
Of an Aspen–quaking
Against a crisp, autumn breeze
Shimmering
In the direct gaze
Of a bold sun
Dangling
Like golden coins
Waiting to be plucked
Trembling with possibility,
Spinning–heads, then tails–
My destiny hangs in the balance…
Do I dare to climb
Out on a limb
And claim the treasure
Of a fate
Fashioned from
My own, deepest desires?
Tell me, would you dare
To let it fall
Unseized?
What steered the whimsy
of autumn winds?
What spurred tree limbs
To shed their splendor?
What lies in store for leaves
That can flee the nest no more?
Yes–these scarlet leaves,
Which bow and twirl
In a final, delicate waltz,
Which tremble and falter
In fruitless preparation
For a fall that won’t ever come.
I don’t know what is it to birth a child,
But I know how to press my ear to the earth,
To curl my fingers in supplication,
To stare at a blank page until they are clear–
The mysterious whispers of a hundred lives,
And I–the midwife who’ll deliver them into the world.
Does the tree trunk rot and crumble
After its leaves wither to dust?
When Spring comes once more,
Will you lift your face to the sky
And still taste the rain?
(with inspiration from “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver)
I feel most alive amidst
The lilting arpeggio of birdsong–
Shoes crunching through scattered leaves
And my eyes lifted to a sky shimmering
With a web of verdant limbs
I feel most alive when
My fingers pluck at nylon strings–
Eyes closed, head tossed back,
Mouth bursting at the seams with
Thought-felt phrases knitted from the soul.
I feel most alive when
The melody of pure laughter escapes
From the pillowy lips of beloved kiddos–
Their tiny, yet powerful bodies hurling
Through the air into my waiting arms.
I feel most alive when
Palms brush across bare skin,
Breaths catch in stuttering chests,
Our fingers, our hearts, our minds
Intertwining as You and I become We.
© 2019 Renée Canada Wuerth
When you can’t tune out the Muse
But your weary eyes refuse to skim another page,
When muting the channel of inspiration is futile,
Though your limbs ache and shake with
The promise of imminent rain,
You try to drown out the voices
That defy the silence
By meditating on diving deeper
Into the present moment–
The irony of that intention
Is not lost on you, no
So…you pick up the phone
And tap out this sound byte of dialogue here,
That scrap of character description there,
Sending a message to your tomorrow self
To kick off another day behind the writing desk
But the moment you rest your head
On the bed once more,
You can SEE your characters awakening
Behind your closed eyes
And you realize they
Will not be silenced
Until you give them the chance
To say what they need to say
So…back behind the barely filtered
Blue-light incandescence you go,
Translating the morse code of action
Tapping incessantly against your
Left temporal lobe,
Until the click click click
Of the keyboard ceases…
And a sigh of satisfaction
Escapes from your lips,
A grant of permission to collapse
Against the pillow once more
Renée Can(ada) Writes 