Frozen

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Bone-deep in winter

meadow trees are sleeping, but

time skates on thin ice.

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(c) 2022  Betty Hayes Albright

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Water-color by my grandmother, Lilly Bjornstad

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Winter Solstice

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Underneath the frost it turns,

hidden in a fog it churns —

winter snaps its coiled whip

cracks the ice but holds its grip.

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It wraps the trees in shiver beads,

chews on shadows, spits out seeds

to grace the gardens flocked in sleep

waiting for that northward leap

of the wandering,

prodigal sun.

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(c) Betty Hayes Albright  2014, 2021

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(Re-posted from 2017)

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Wishing everyone a Happy Winter’s Solstice — and may your holidays be filled with love, joy and peace!

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Feathers

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She likes feathers –

leaves of lace,

wings in willows

kissed with grace,

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trails of moonlight,

velvet strings,

dew-lit grass

and faerie rings.

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She likes watercolors

in the trees

and lichen stirring

in the breeze

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and mossy fractals

around lagoons

and gossamer tendrils

in founts and plumes.

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She likes sea spray

on crystal clear

and Agape in

the atmosphere

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and deep behind

a filigree shawl

undulations

on the wall.

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She likes feathers,

leaves of grace,

time on the wing,

a kiss on the face

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and ribbons dangling

from the mirror

and sweet suggestions

in her ear.

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© 2021  Betty Hayes Albright

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Wild Sides

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The tree turns into bone

while its leaves

turn into feathers

in the alabaster light

just before the sun goes down.

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Ninety feet up

a young eagle leaps

around his nest

of sticks and straw

flapping his wings

like wide miracles

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until the sun finally sets

and they fold again

hugging his wild sides –

every bone and feather

neatly back in place.

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© 2021   Betty Hayes Albright

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Inspired by watching the Redding, California eagle cam. I highly recommend! The three eaglets will fledge in 2-3 weeks.

Sorry for my absence here… hoping to eventually catch up with everyone.

Also hope you’re all well — I’ve missed you all. ❤

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Son Sets

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Like those nesting dolls

in graduated sizes

my sons became

encased each year

inside of bigger boys.

Now grown and sealed

inside tall men

they’re unaware

I still see through

a mother’s eyes

to all those younger little boys

still playing deep inside.

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(c) 1992, 2021  Betty Hayes Albright

(A re-post; also previously published in Skipping Stones)

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This week my first born son turns 50….! 

(Hard to grasp, as I still haven’t accepted that I’m over 50! 😊 )

And I still often see that little boy still playing deep inside him. 

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Winter Fire

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I am the water

you draw from your well –

steep me

into your tea.

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I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate –

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

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I am the evergreen

on your morning walk –

breathe me

into your shadow.

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I am the eyes

meeting yours in the marketplace –

see the pangs

of my hunger.

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I am the line

down the middle of your road –

follow me

through the desert.

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I am the match

that lights your winter fire –

catch my sparks

in a jar.

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I am the shooting star

in your fevered night –

wish for me

one more time.

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(c) 1995, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised….)

 

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Untouched Snow

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O magic tilt of earth,

we sing and dance

in this new wash

of winter.

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Icy prisms

play the stars

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while we gather

reds and greens

to weave ourselves

a holy wreath

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as one tall candle

lights

the untouched snow.

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(c) 1992, 2020  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A re-post from 2011 — revised…)

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Wishing everyone a holiday season

filled with love, joy, peace and good health.

Merry Christmas!!

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Winter Solstice

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This tall reach

of a winter’s day

scrapes silver dust

from a crumpled sky.

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I turn to face

a southern glow

with eyes upraised

and heart thrice full –

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O Sun, I’d woo thee

north again

to light this shadow land.

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(c) 1993, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright 

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A re-post from 2014… (poem written in 1993).

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Wings

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Washing dishes and

longing out the window

at trees

when suddenly

the ends of the universe touch

like the tips of two wings

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and I’m there

at that center

where nothing exists

but a bubbly plate

and the clear hot water

rinsing it clean.

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©  2012, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright 

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Re-posted from 2015, previously titled “Clear”.

Also published in Skipping Stones in 2018.

This is a revised version — hopefully improved. 😊

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Over the Rise

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We watch for him in the valley

by the riverbank

in the green of the moss

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but on the bridge

to the other side

all we find is our own loss

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till whispers in the trees remind:

just send love,

not sad goodbyes —

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no maudlin sentiment

for him,

he’s just over the rise.

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© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright 

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