Birch Island Books

I have had Annual Coffee On The Dock With Cousin Carol.
The summer may begin.

I found sunlight on water this morning.

Sgiob crossed the stream on a felled tree with such dainty feet – it was an absolute pleasure to watch: trit, trit, trit, trit with the tips of her ears bouncing.

The green filled in this weekend past
making open paths into tunnels
through mystery
with only a hint of sky.

It’s going to rain – we can smell it!
and the new-summer-green of the leaves is carried in the air by the humidity and reflected back on us by the clouds.

We went out as far as the Grandmother Tree today,
my light-footed Rovers and I,
and we all sat quite still
Listening.

Birds, brook, beech leaves rustling.

Today is for things that begin with B.

I’ve collected poetry from previous summers into one volume – a day book to walk with you from Litha (Saturday June 20th this year) through to Lunastal (August 1st). Observations, visions, and a small thread of story inspire the words – two good dogs underscore them.

Won’t you join me?

Wind from southeast, up the small valley, cools all.

I am grateful for rain
and cool air.

I am not doing so well inside my heart today,
But I can be grateful for rain
and cool air.

Begin again.

Small Shiatsu Dog woke me with paddy paws on my back
and a message about the goodness of the day
and all the refreshment to be found in a nice bowl of kibble.

The yard smells of mown grass and that is all Grace –
and the kitchen now glows with a spring-green-leaf-seeming –

and that is all Grace.

Every day Grace is all around me, holding me in love
and wonder.

I went a little further today,
and I did some trail work in the sense of clearing branches out of the new path.
And I processed some regrets,
which is a lot like clearing branches out of a new path.

OK, Thursday, apparently you want to be Metaphor Day.
I can go with that.
Now, what is “ignoring the laundry” a metaphor-for?

Laying new trails
through thick, young woods
over rocky angles.

A pretty nice start to a summer’s day.

I’m not quite certain where my edges are.

Air, thick with wet, blurs the edges of trees, bogs, rocks, dogs, trails,
and me.