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Posts Tagged ‘Trees’

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When we see

snow flocked trees,

a soaring hawk

and winter greens

we seize the beauty

and set it free:

catch   and   release.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(True of all artists, photographers, writers, sculptors, painters, musicians. 🙂 )

 

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Without all their leaves

did the trees lose their beauty

or was it revealed?

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(c) 2014, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Thursday is Thanksgiving in the U.S.

Love and thanks to everyone, here and around the world, for your friendship and poetic exchanges on WordPress.   🙂

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(photo from morguefile.com)

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She takes in the street,

its rain-polished gleam

of high wet shadows,

of tall crows in bare trees.

Cupping her hands

she gathers a reflection

draws it to her lips

and drinks.

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(c) 1992, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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She thought it was

the autumn sun

shining on the dogwood tree

but no

the leaves themselves

were flushed

defying the gray

with red-gold embers

self-lit in the gloom.

It was the spark

within the dead,

the nuances of yesterday,

the fire of life

banked against all odds.

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(c) 2010, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post, revised)

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She talks to trees

and birds,

to flowers, bees

and dragonflies.

They like to hear

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how beautiful they are

and then they whisper

their own story

and she listens

care fully.

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(c) 2013, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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.(revision of an older poem)

.Photo taken in 2010 with my old camera

 

 

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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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In spring she waits

for tethered clouds

to fly apart

so she can ride

the northbound sun

as it barrels through the trees.

She wonders if his sky is blue,

and if the shore

where they embraced

is held together still

with sandy logs

and braids of kelp.

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But today she takes the longing path

that weaves close to the river

with its folded banks

and tangled roots.

Waddled crows

once hopped the rocks

to warn them of intruders.

She wonders if he sees it still,

the vernal sun

that laced their days,

and if their memories are safe –

and do they intertwine?

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©  2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A Mayberrie poem – re-post, revised)

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