I Love…

I love my mother.
         Her sparkling, laughing, blue eyes often read,
         She easily made the most wonderful bread,
         She knew how to listen to what I said.

I love my gray sweater.
         Soft, warm, and worn,
         Pulled over my head looking old and forlorn,
         I’ll keep on wearing it though it is torn.

I love the color blue.
On white Florida sand, the azure gulf rises,
Blue skies, blueberry pie, Roger’s blue eyes,
And blue butterflies.

I love to go to the mountains to roam.
         In summer away from our hot Texas home,
         Wading in cold streams won’t cause me to moan,
         Though building rock dams can chill one to the bone.

I love children.
         Tall, short, skinny, fat,
         Those who giggle, cry, and pout,
         The runners, the jumpers, and the sitters about.

I love reading and writing.
         Learning from poems, stories, and books,
         I like to see how my ideas look,
         Written on a page of my very own book.

I love baked potatoes.
         Covered with butter, chives, and sour cream,
         Topped with cheese, chili, olives, it will seem,
         Like something that came from your very best dream.

I love Roger sweet and true.
         Sailing on the lake so blue
         Working with an untried crew,
         Always, always, making do.

Cerita M. Hewett
About 1994 revised 2002

Polished Sandhill Crane

A polished sandhill crane
Stands on the table of my room,
White Tail-feathers nearly brush the ground,
Slender feet sustain it carefully,
As though ‘twould walk quite soon,
Beneath the long and gracious neck,
Shines out an oval spot of brown.

Her beak,
Like an ivory needle gently drawn high,
Attracts my eyelids upward from the earth,
Stretching gladly toward the pale blue sky.
My spirit seems to soar with a new birth.

The one who carved you
From that discarded horn,
Made you to match his lofty thought,
Through his delightful toil,
Your life was born,
By his sincerity
A thing of beauty wrought.

You stand there doing nothing,
Bending not a knee,
Still in your shaping
A heart gave,
Now looking
Uplifts me.

Cerita Marie Moore
January 4, 1966

Pond

The pond,
Built with his hands and a
Heart full of love,
Draws raccoons and fox to drink from it,
Allows minnows and frogs a swimming place,
With rocks, large, rough, black and orange,
Making sunning places for turtles, geckos, and people,

While still water provides a reflecting surface
For tall old weathered trees,
And small young bushes.
Its little waterfall
Bubbles and splashes with living water,
Available to all who come seeking it.

Cerita M. Hewett
September 21, 2015

Mountains to Climb

We can see clearly
Massive mountains to be climbed,
Not so clearly the preparation.
The time, the effort,
The knowledge, the skill,
They will require.

We usually need some smaller,
Practice hills before we
Take on a mammoth mountain.

May we conquer many mounds,
And feel happy,
Then, when we start our mountain climb,
We will find that this towering alp is mostly,
One rise after another.

May we feel our strength growing,
As we climb and stand on knolls,
Stamina built on ridges,
Will be there to sustain us
All the way to the top.
And then after many months, sense the joy of a
View from the summit of a towering mountain.

Cerita M. Hewett
October 29, 2015

Sleep (by Elena, 11yrs)

Joy, peace, calming air fills my lungs
In the light and beauty surrounding me.
Listening to my heart thumping out a rhythm,
Slow and sleepy
Like a bear in hibernation.
The lids of my eyes hang low
Cutting out the brilliant light.
Slowly, like turtles crawling up onto a log,
Sleep overcomes my inner will.
Sleeping, rocking slowly.
Sleep.

Elena Hewett
Oct 2015

Painting With Leaves

Sunday evening the grand children and I
Went for a walk in our woods,
The forest was quiet,
The pine needles deep and soft beneath our feet,
Some of the deciduous leaves had begun to
Turn colors and fall to the forest floor,
The girls kept giggling and dancing about
Like children having been let out of church,
I kept feeling Elena and then Isabel
Touch the back of my sweater,
I couldn’t see what was happening but
I knew they were putting something,
On my fuzzy sweater vest,

Finally at the house after a photo,
I was able to see their work,
My back was a beautiful leaf painting!

Cerita M. Hewett
Nov. 7, 2011

No More

Behind the Alojamiento.
In the daytime, mostly hidden,
An owl sat in a leafy tree,
Only eyes, a foot, and half a body visible,
We looked for him in the light,
As we walked by there each day,
And listened for him at night,
As we lay suspended between awake and asleep.
Once in a while we would hear
A soft ooo- ooo- ooo-
Or a muted rustle of
Wings in flight.

Then one day we saw him no more,
Heard him no more,
Yet our heads turn as we pass his perch,
Hoping for one more sighting.
Still we listen for his call in the twilight hours,
Just a mirage remains,
Just an echo in our brains,
Only a gentle, pleasant, lingering memory!

Cerita M. Hewett
September 4, 2010

Captured by a Campfire

(for Sharon & Gordon)

Everyone else went inside
To shower, snack, and visit.
I wanted to go too,
But the dying coals of the fire
Held me captive, motionless,
Quietly staring into its depths,
Watching embers glow,

Flash, and die into white ash.
Remembering, savoring, storing it up.
Gordon called from the balcony,
“Are you ok?”
“Yes,” I replied and sat longer
Drinking in the quiet,
Inhaling the aroma of smoke and pines,
Until there was no more warmth
For my hands and face,
No glow,
Then at last I was released.

Cerita M. Hewett
February 2015

Serenity

Sometimes when I am troubled
I wander through the photo albums of my mind
To places of peace and love.

I lie near the pine of our old backyard,
In the tall early morning grass,
Just after dew tears have dried,
Watching mountains of marshmallow clouds drift by.

I sit on the deck of an Idaho cabin,
Where I gaze at magnificent pines,
And observe busy chipmunks,
As they open brown seeds for lunch

I watch the flames of a campfire
Melt from dancing yellow and orange,
To a red, red glow, and
Slowly expire into flickering black embers and white ash.

I rock a baby,
Feel a soft cheek against my neck,
The pressure of dainty feet upon my leg,
A tiny hand curling round my little finger.

I perch in the sheltering rocks of a windy beach,
See the white caps forming at sea,
Watch Roger playing with the children on the shore,
Smell the salt and hear the gulls.

I gaze from a schoolroom window,
At the oaks and pecans of the woods,
Listening to the murmur of children,
Busy with reading, writing, and painting.

I stroll the temple grounds,
Pull grass spears from among the flowers beside the walk,
Sit looking up towards its towers,
Sense the trumpet’s soundless plea for peace

Remembering through each scene,
Knowing how I have been understood and loved,
Feeling the Spirit wash my heart in a quiet hush,
Then, in the stillness, the calmness,
the silence, comes serenity.

Cerita M. Hewett
July 12, 2009
(revised 2014)

Cobweb Sweeper (for Edward)

The runner who
                                    Sweeps the cobwebs,
                                    On the paths through the woods,
                                    Before the dawn comes,
                                    Is on vacation.

                                    So the feathery,
                                    Sticky lines,
                                    Hit my face as
                                    I walk through the daylight woods.

                                    I held a twiggy
                                    Branch aloft,
                                    In front of my face today,
                                    To clear them for myself.

                                    My how it changed
                                    My view of the woods.
                                    It was like looking,
                                    Through a cracked
                                    Window pane.

                                    Every vista fractured
                                    By scraggy lines.
                                    But then my face
                                    Was protected and free of webs.

                                     I will be glad when
                                    The dashing cobweb sweeper,
                                    Returns to the forest.

Cerita M. Hewett
July 2014
(revised October 2014)

PineyWoodsPoet

a winding walk in the woods

Nature