Where the Clouds are Made

We had moved to

a place - I have 

since come to know as -

where the clouds

are made.

It is across these

open fields and

tree-lined knolls

that you can feel

the drafts moving

swiftly over and 

carrying invisibly

upward the droplets 

to one another.

Building themselves

glorious landscapes

from which we -

given only hope and

dreams and wondering if's -

from which we

find

simple brief respites

from what is truly

lugubrious in our days.

Only for a Season

Across the
surface of the
frozen dirt

the snow blows
all night -

back and forth.

I am surprised
it does not
wear away

the earth-skin.

With that much
abrasion in my heart
or in my mind

I would have been
worn thin -

frazzled away from
myself - my center.

Perhaps the lesson
is to freeze over
and become cold
when the season turns
to wearing you down.

A little distance
and hardening
can preserve
your surface

when harshness
and the winds of
change settle in.

But,
only for a season.

Ciao!

tjm+

Snow Moon from Vladstudio

Three Haiku

One

Early morning sunlight

scatters itself through the tree tops and limbs;

the fluttering leaf sings in the wind.

Two

Sometimes,

when the wind blows past my window

the rattling branch sounds like yesterday.

Three

The stillness between the raindrops

soaks into my heart.

I am drenched.

Ciao!

TJM+

image from: http://bit.ly/cYzhHY

The Wind

I heard the wind today,
ripping over
the tops of the trees
coming in from the west.

I heard the wind today
and its sound cleansed me
down to my bones.

Its wonder
makes me shudder
at just
how beautiful it sounds,
how it glances off my
skin, some
going right through me
to my heart;

to my soul.
Bathing in
the air has become
a second baptism;

a capturing of God
in the pores of my skin.

I will hold Him there -
in my cells -
with memory,
with feeling,
and with the closing of my
eyes that
comes with the fresh scent
of windy air and shivering leaves
on the not yet sleeping
trees of pre-autumn.

All of the branches
bob in the freshness of
the air
and the leaves;

they chatter and sing
reminding me that they
will soon
disappear -

falling to the ground
to die - never
to feel the wind again -

as leaves.

But, they will
as dirt.

http://www.fotosearch.com/photos-images/wind.html

The Heart of the Mountain

There is a stream
that flows from the
heart of the mountain
to my heart.

There is a wind
that blows across
her hills into me.

I can stand here
a thousand, thousand
times

and never
feel the
less for it.

She fortifies me
as a sister does,

knowing we share
the same blood,
the same toils,
the same heart.

Knowing we hold
the pain of all
existence

in our hearts;
softening us to
the core.

She takes the
dead and dying
and gives them
a place to give
up their hold

on all they
have known
to be living.

She tenderly turns
their bones into
tendrils and roots
pushing life back
out above her
skin.

There is a stream

that flows from the

heart of the mountain

to my heart.

Ciao!  

TJM+

Rehearsal for Summer

The first
warm wind blows
in

across the lake,

carrying the
air of summer.

It is early still

too young a day
in Spring
to be this warm.

My skin
feels the
need to smell
the baked earth
and warming chamomile
of Summer

but it is
not there,

it is not here.

Ants are
crawling their way
out of the dirt

looking for food
that has not yet
grown.

This

will be
a rehearsal
for the days
of Summer
that are
yet to come.

we will try
again
as the days
wear on - slowly.

photo by the author

In the Trees

I hear more in the
trees tonight

than the wind.

I hear freedom
a cleansing
cold wave that

takes from us
the burden

of our much-toiling
flesh.

I hear the silence
behind the ocean

of pine whipping
sound,

bough whistling
peace -

a peace
that knows it is
all.

It passes
more than just
all understanding.

It passes
all beauty,
all joy,

even all hope.

Because it is
all of these things.

And how is it
that the wind

can be all of these things -
freedom, peace, understanding,
beauty,joy and even hope.

That
I may never know.

But, I hear it.

Ciao!

Tom +

The Trees Chant

The wind
blows steady
over the surface of
the frozen lake.

From the hills
it carries the sound
of trees chanting
the chants
of the monks
of old.

Gregorian tunes
mingle with the
rattle of leaf on
leaf.

If you hold your
heart still
in the gray morning
hours, even the
cry of the hawk
rises as a prayer

like incense
to the nose of
the ALL-WISE.

An aroma of
piety
and song of
salvation
blows in across
the stillness
of the frozen lake.

Blows in and sets
us free.

Windworn

Those portions of our
lives that disappear.
Folds of flower flesh
turning to paper with
the passage of time.
Those things are the
stuff the wind blows away.

It comes in sometimes,
quickly from its place
beyond the horizon, and
just picks up whatever it
wants. It throws it down
and watches it bounce.
This wind has power. It
can take things from one
place to another. And,
sometimes it makes
things go away.

I think I have felt it carry
away pieces of who I am.

I am alright with that. Some
of those pieces I never did
like. Some of them I will just
plain miss. All in all, I like
the cleansing power of the wind.