She lives in earth tones –

soft colors of

amber and sage


brush across her arms

on terracotta mornings

and lavender afternoons.


Bracelets of seashells

on pink ribbons

play on her wrists


as her celadon skirt

sways like the tresses

of the willow


and she dances

in the garden –




©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright


Sorry for being way behind reading blogs. 

Hope to catch up with everyone soon! 💚




red love heart christmas


When we hurt,

grief wants nothing more

than to light a candle

and sit with us

in our keening.


If we look it in the eye

we’ll see

its soft depth

as it holds us tenderly

to the flame.


And when we’re ready

we’ll hold it in return

and watch the spiral

of warm smoke

rise to the sky.



© 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 


Photo from Pixabay



background balance beach boulder


When I cross

your path again

I’ll build a cairn

for you, my friend –


and all who pass

shall add a stone

and ne’er shall

we be alone.



© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright 


Photo by Pixabay



Baby spider, no bigger

than a pinhead

snuggles next to the sink

for three days,

sustained by dust motes

and a sip of water

from a speck of mist


until this morning

when she fluffs him

into a tissue

and he rides willingly

through the house

and out the back door

to the garden, and then


as if knowing,

he drops down

into the leaves

of the orange Calendulas

which have just begun

to bloom.



(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright




Capricious one

I often wonder

if in truth

our hearts grow fonder


longing for

the agate blue

of sky-reflecting

drops of dew,


of simple pleasures

on the skin

and tender truths

to wrap us in


fine threads of wisdom

knit with choices

weaving through

those distant voices


firing up

our tender hopes

while mating in



Then shall we

consummate the sun?

I wonder,

oh capricious one.



© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright




Baby leaves unfurl

from trees planted long ago —

tendered new in spring.



© 2012, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright


Originally posted in 2012… revised.

(Photo from 2012)



The old Shaman

placed his hands

on the trunk

of an ancient tree


fitting his fingers

between the ripples and creases

of the bark,

until he heard a whispering –


“Oh, spare me from

the greed of the axe

and the fickle see-saw

of humanity!”


But from the distant edge

of the forest

the old Shaman also heard

the growl of a chain-saw


and he smelled the exhaust

and the gasoline,

and he heard the shouts

of timbering men


and so he bowed his head

and wept,

as a drop of pitch

landed on his cheek.



(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright


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