Joyce Anderson

Winter Morning
Snow-encrusted branches
of towering gray pines
thaw in the morning light.
A microcosm of isolated rain,
in glittering drops
of sun-teared snow
anointing the ground below.
     An early morning blessing.
I step beneath to be included.
                                         Jaka

Bone Cold
Cold winter mornings
chill my bones
until the fire is lit.
My body awakes 
relaxes, unfolds
soothed by the fire’s breath.
Outside the snow
glows morning bright,
a winter day newborn — 
numbed by daybreak’s icy chill
untrodden, cold … softly still,
     while I huddle near the ashy hearth
warmed by the crackling blaze,
     my hands hovering over
the wood-stove's edge
like wings of a moth
to a beckoning flame.
And through blood-warm lips
     my life steams out,
curls upon the hiemal air.
In soft fading puffs
of vapory mist
it is lost to a 
     bone cold world.
                              Jaka

Moon Madness
In a passage of sleep
I awoke to dream
to merge with the whispered
wakening of my mind. 
I ventured forth
into a womb of darkness
cloaked in the solace of
an echoing heartbeat.
Through conjured images of past and present, 
in shadows of receding time,
         I seek intangible truth.
Guided by spiraling star-armed defenders
bearing shields of ethereal light,
my hands stretch forth
to sense existence . . .
        abruptly I awake –
         
 to find myself in bed tucked gently,
     embraced by moonlight streaming in,
          safe at home in a world of my making,
                         not sure I dreamed or lived.

Black Oak
The tree crashed to earth
in a sprawl of
crushed and tangled limbs,
a towering black oak
that had survived countless
storms and drought conditions.
But over the years,
unseen traumas, heavy winds,
fatigue of snow, down pours,   
the broken limbs, 
     weakened its hold.
This provider    This sustainer
reduced suddenly
to a chaotic pile
of broken majesty,
     an undignified demise
     for this centuries-old tree.
Yet in death 
it still provides, it still sustains.
     In humble gratitude
     I gather firewood
             for winters to come.

                                         

Summer,  time again to do battle with
those quilled-head punk-style kings
who march defiantly between wild oat grasses
and tall fescue stems.
The nectar-laden crowns of sun-ray yellow
disguise a more malevolent nature
of these warrior chiefs,
protected by sharp-toothed lances.
I pick and gather the star thistle
to stop the invasion
to prevent the reseeding and the starting anew.
I bend down, clutch the stem 
near to the ground with gloved, shielded fingers,
and pull the brown root; short, dry hairs all
up and out, making sure it will not grow again . . . 
will not claim dominion over native vegetation.
I feel good ridding the land of this arrogant weed
attacking the legs of farmers and hikers, infesting 
the native grasslands, meadows and gardens 
of a more approachable world.
Now and then, using gloveless more nimble fingers 
I pull and tug each one up by its roots, 
and in this hand-to-thistle combat 
the dry coarse-ribbed stems occasionally 
cut through my vulnerable skin.
The smear of blood across 
my farmer’s palm gives me evidence 
of their imperial maleficence 
and the royal command "Fight On!"

 In pots on the windowsill
 my mother’s plants
 stretch their leaves 
 to the morning light
 and I stretch to her memory
 imprinted upon my heart
 like veins upon those leaves.
 I, too, bend to the light,
 nourished by the warmth
 memories revived
 rooted in love.

 Sitting before
 a glowing wood-stove,
 I am comforted by the rain
 tapping  pattering  hushing
 as an undulating wind
 rubs its wetness
 against the cabin walls.
 In corners of the room,
 on a draft of heated air,
 spiderwebs billow
 to the sounds of Debussy.
 While outside,
 across white capped waves
 of cold gray sky,
 tentacles of tree branches
 wash back and forth
 adrift, groping for a hold
 on a more tangible world.
 Roots anchored to the ground,
 the reach for something beyond
 soothes my sense
 of inevitable separation.
                                                Jaka

Green my world, springtime green
 tangled wild, verdant lush,
 sun-glossed green.
         Lustrous leaves polished in jade,
 pendulous crystals lighting the way
 through green velvet pinions 
 of  broody hen trees,
 ruffling against a satin-cool breeze 
 deep in this forest 
 pearl shimmer green.
         Where whirling, twirling
 tendrils of spring
 extend their banners welcoming me
 in echoed murmurous ripples above—
 a leaf filled ocean of green-tossed waves
 that lap at the heavens
 engulf the sky,
              splashing my world     
             splashing my being 
 in a primal tide of green creation.
                                        Jaka

 Let us fall in love slowly
 turning our lives gently
 as pages in a cherished book.
 Let us not betray
 the slightest punctuation
 or rhythm of thought.
 Let us take time to love, 
 to leisurely bathe in Nereid depths
 of clear-eyed emotion . . .
 tracing the symmetry of our passion 
 across well-thumbed pages
 read again and again 
 to the cadence of our hearts.
 I am a willing Scheherazade
 to your inquisitive King
 and there is time I say —
 in the artistry of experience,
 the beauty of chaptered continuance,
 the unwritten epilogue —
 to fall in love slowly, 
 to slowly fall in love.
                          Jaka