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old skirt 2017

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Skirt of many long colors

sewn in gathers

and tears

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brushing my ankles

with playful seams

cutting through the design

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of mismatched patterns

wearing thin

after all these years

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washing on delicate

hanging to dry

one more time.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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IMG_7227

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Moon like an opal

hanging from a coral thread

veiled by fairy clouds.

 

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(c) 2013, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post, revised; photo from 2013)

 

 

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Affinity

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Is grief a particle

or a wave

that washes over

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the speed of light

bending space around

our massive loss?

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Or is it just

the parenthetic spark

in an equation

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the final proof

that love

connects us all?

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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We are tuna fish

breathing the sea,

oblivious to mayo and toast.

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We are cocoa

in the hot southern bean,

our proof is not yet in the pudding.

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We are tomato

bulging acid in red sun,

unsuspecting the BLT.

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We are lettuce leaf

photosynthesized,

ignorant of a thousand islands.

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We are potato,

white jewel buried in soil

unconscious of sour cream and chives.

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We are yeast,

multiplying dark spaces

waiting to be kneaded.

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(c) 1996, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

 

 

Midwife

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She searches for a pulsetree-in-hand

her fingers kneading earth

beneath rocks and stones

to reach the heart of Gaia.

There she rides the quake

of nature’s first womb

lifting her face

to catch the genesis

of sun and rain

wind

and moon

till seedlings birth

their promises.

Labor replete

she bows her head

and the gods kiss the dirt

beneath her nails.

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(c) 1992, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Photo originally used with permission of Jason in 2012 at  http://loveuniversallove.wordpress.com/

 

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They say it’s coming

strong winds

unusual for June.

Large trees bursting

with foliage

are at risk.

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They say his heart

was enlarged

(with generosity)

at risk

for a death

out of season.

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Tomorrow when the storm hits

I will go outside

and stand among the trees.

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© 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Oh garden bird

you kept a wild heart

between your ribs

as you danced

the morning zephyr

darting circles

through the phlox.

Your last song

sang of forgiveness

to the cat

before you died.

Let me hold

your empty body

till I feel again

the pulse

of swaying hills

and flying trees,

till my own wings spread

new feathers

and we both reclaim the sky.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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