Double-trunked, the dead tree stands with

twisted branches,

curling limbs, a

thing of beauty

in itself, now a support for

all that eager

green to climb as

it twines its way

around those gnarled limbs, lending

its green to what

has gone and yet,

with grace, remains.

                                                                        JDG

Although autumn years have come to

grace me now, there

is in us an

eternal spring,

the  source of all that’s tender, fresh,

and new. Safely

tucked deep within,

the new comes forth

in its own time and joins the world

where all seasons

live together

in their own way.

                                                            JDG

It’s morning and the road I’m on

runs between two

different kinds

of day. Behind

me and on the right, the sky lies

heavy, smudged and gray.

Ahead, and on

the other side,

the stretch of sky is clear and blue.

I’m glad to learn

my turn takes me

toward what’s light.

                                                              JDG

I looked every which way and that,

but could not see

what he could spot

so easily.

Ears cocked, tail held still and high, his

gaze fixed, Toby

stood silently.

Then a low growl,

a bark, warned  in the dark of night

those sinister

trash cans had snuck

and run amuck.

                                                         JDG

After a life of gathering

books and notions,

tools and potions,

I find myself

drawn instead to the dance of wind

in trees. What moves

the most is what

is new. The leaves

quiver with the slightest breath while

strong roots and trunk

support the sway

of limbs and leaves.

                                                                   JDG

It’s in their blood, this love of words,

 those of others,

and their own too.

Son and daughter,

grandkids too, all freely share what

they’ve read and what

they’ve written – puns

and quips, rhyme and

rhythm. Some love the silky sound

of silence. Not

  my tribe. They love

words well spoken.

Below are two short poems my eleven year old granddaughter, Sami, wrote  recently.

A chosen path,

a winding walk,

a rumbling brook,

a screeching hawk –

how lovely is the world.

This one was written in response to the poem, INVICTUS.

To be a master of your fate

and a captain of your soul,

your soul must be an unsinkable boat

as the oceans of sadness

take their toll.

Out for an early morning walk,

my dog and I

startled a pair

of Canada

geese as they made their way across

the pond, stately

but no longer

serene. Scolding

us harshly for our misstep, they

continued on

their morning course

and we on ours.

                                                          JDG

Warm days and rain leave me knee deep

in green, pleasing

to bugs, bunnies,

and butterflies,

but not to my neighbors driving

by and not to

me. Around here

the rites of Spring

begin with the steady drone of

mowing, adding

  new voices to

an ancient  song.

                                                         JDG

After the rain, before the sun,

we wonder which

way the weather

will turn. It’s hard

to say if the clouds will clear or

how much light they

will let in. And

so we wait, caught

in between, watching the slowly

shifting light for

any sign of

what is to come.

                                                                       JDG

The now we see is only ours.

Even in those

moments shared, each

sees differently.

The past bleeds through and shades our view,

lighting up what

others may dim.

We walk into

the future, holding the past by

the hand and this

very moment

is only ours.

                                                                         JDG