Author: karynhenleyauthor

Who Knew?

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“There was an old woman tossed up in a basket,
Nineteen times as high as the moon;
And where she was going, I couldn’t but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.

“‘Old woman, old woman, old woman,’ said I,
O whither, O whither, O whither so high?’
‘To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky!’
‘Shall I go with you?’ ‘Aye, by and by.’”

There was a time,
years and years ago,
when an old woman swept the sky,*
when the moon was the North Wind’s cookie,**
and when Mrs. Peck-Pigeon
went pecking for bread.***
Who knew that such a long ago time
would take root and grow into
a warm, spacious place-of-mind,
a pool of peace,
a cup of all-is-well within me.
Of course, out in the big, wide world,
all is not well
and was not well even then,
but my heart tiptoes back
to this landing place where I can
hold the open hand of hope,
find gentle joy,
and open again and again
the treasure box
of childhood dreams and imagining,
where all things are possible
and the currency of trade is
simple kindness.
Who knew that such a pool
of goodness and trust
would never dry up
but would be there still,
seventy years on and counting.
Who knew that it would call to me
on bright spring days,
that it would be my “land of nod”
on the darkest of nights.
Who could know?
But even now,
the moon is the North Wind’s cookie,
Mrs. Peck Pigeon still peck, peck, pecks,
the old woman still sweeps the sky.
I still ask her, “Shall I go with you?”
And she still replies,
“Aye. By and by.”
-kh

*nursery rhyme **Vachel Lindsay *** Eleanor Farjeon

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week – bluebirds!:

Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

The Wonder-Work of Winter

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We knew it would come—the snow.
It had been forecast for a week.
Still, the child in me cheers
when I wake to the still, soft gray morning
of a snow-covered world.
Every rooftop is a steep hill of white,
sharp edges sculpted smooth.
Snow lines the iron fence railings
and the spiral stairsteps next door.
It outlines tree branches and
rests in plump mounds on flowerpots.
Dollops of snow cream perch on pine branches,
a perfect picture for a holiday card.
Some little creature has left tracks
across the white-carpeted deck—
maybe a ‘possum or racoon.
A branch bobs in a thicket of evergreens
and a plop of snow falls.
The branch bobs again;
out pops a sparrow
who proceeds to make his own
wispy tracks across the yard.
I have sisters whose hearts say,
Let’s go out! Let’s play in the snow,
sled, ski, toss snowballs,
get red-cheeked and cold-nosed
and watch our breath form puffy clouds.
My heart says,
Let’s stay inside wrapped in a warm wool throw.
Let’s enjoy this art gallery of windows.
Isn’t it a joy to be so different,
some of us snow-babies stepping out,
some of us simply snuggling in,
content to watch the wonder-work,
the artistry of Winter.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

At the Tail End of Winter

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Joy is the crocus, who
does not wait for spring
but will push her way up
even through snow
to wake the world.
Fresh and new,
her purple peeks through
undaunted by chill wind,
bright in brown grass,
stretching up as if to say,
“See? Here I am!”
Or rather, “Here we are,”
for she brings sisters with her every year.
They rival the soon-to-come daffodils
and the Lenten roses
to be first to announce
the warm gladness of coming spring
even as the tail end of winter whips by.
Such small blooms,
they can come and go unnoticed.
But for those who watch
for early signs of spring,
the crocus is a generous grace.
She is hope.
She is faithful.
She is bold joy
on a cold day.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Lasting the Winter

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Walking back to my house
from my mailbox,
I always look up
to where treetops touch the sky.
Today, I paused to count nests—
seven in different trees—
tucked high in the elbows of bare branches.
I first noticed them when foliage thinned
and leaves fell last fall.
So far, they’ve survived winter winds
and downpours of ice-chilled rain.
I’ve read that most birds
don’t return to last season’s nest.
They build fresh ones.
But I wonder if these old nests
have been a refuge for birds
caught in a cold winter drizzle.
Each seems an obvious oasis,
an inviting island under a field of clouds.
Or stars.
Or a crisp blue frosty sky.
I will not know if the birds return
to these nests,
for the trees will soon leaf out again,
and the nests will be hidden.

I think of those of us who are nesting,
holding space for family,
for friends.
In breezy, balmy seasons of life,
we’re sheltered and hidden and full.
But when branches are bare
and icy winds howl,
when darkness comes early
and stays late,
it’s then that we can look around and see
that we’re not the only tender woven safe space.
All along, there’s been another nearby,
and another,
and another.
Stay safe, nests and nesters.
Hold life and love and hope.
Stay strong through the winter winds.
Spring will come.
– kh

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Night Has Not Fallen

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It’s early twilight,
that gray-blue time of evening
when the neighborhood eases into
the quieter hours of our day.
Chili is simmering on the stove
and the table is set,
so I sit in my rocking chair
to witness the world beyond windows,
to watch the night fall.
“Fall” is a strange way to say it.
Night doesn’t really fall;
it slips in,
seeps through bare, laced branches,
slowly veils the hills.
Tonight the sky is cloud-covered,
a full sweep of blue-gray
gradually growing violet in the east
as if heaven’s light switch
is slowly dimming the day.
It’s a peaceful drift,
moment by moment
as the sky lets go of its dusky gray
and drapes itself in a deepening blue
inviting all who pause and watch
to enter its ease,
to breathe its comfort,
to settle into the serenity of evening
and experience the magic of
twilight blue turning into velvet dark,
whispering calm to a world
that will soon settle into sleep.
No, night has not fallen.
It has snuggled in.
-kh-

 

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week (made by sun shining through a bottle of syrup):

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

The Wisdom of the Ink

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Aprons,
plastic tablecloth,
printer paper,
black ink,
paper towels,
wet rags,
we were ready to create,
my grandson and I.
After I gave the requisite precautions,
he dripped and dribbled
black ink on white paper
wherever he chose.
Then he tipped the paper—
gently, I cautioned again,
grandma that I am—
angled the paper one way,
then the other.
Black paint eased into flowing lines,
pooled here and there,
crept across the page
as one young boy drifted
into the fascination
of the flow and spread of black rivers
mapping themselves into tiny streams
curving,
turning corners,
intersecting.
To no one but the ink,
he softly said,
“Time to create passages,
connect with others,
and make peace.”
Amen, I thought.
May it be.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Here’s part of my grandson’s ink picture:

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Winter’s Brittle Beauty

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I am warm-weather at heart,
loving all things green and growing,
but when bare elms stretch
in latticework across the sky
and pine branches bow to a cold, fresh wind,
when clouds layer softly in shadowed grays,
and dried blooms and crisp leaves stand stiff as straw,
when marigold seed pods dangle on their stalks,
and basil seeds shelter on tiers of miniature pagodas,
when frost dusts shingles,
and smoke rises in lazy curls from a neighbor’s chimney
and the scent of wood smoke drifts through the air,
when a chilly in-breath fills my lungs and clears my head,
then I am grateful for Winter,
for her brittle beauty,
for Nature’s season of rest.
The world seems somehow simpler,
and I am simply grateful.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Around an Unfrozen Pool

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I woke to a world draped in winter white
thicker than a down-filled comforter,
deep enough to swallow my snow boots
up to their necks.
“The fun stuff,” said the weatherman,
perfect for building snow people, snow forts,
and snowballs to launch at them.
It wasn’t our first snow of the season.
The first snow came several weeks ago
in a light layer falling as I drove home.
Sparkles fluttered past the gleam of headlights
as if God were sprinkling glitter over the city
to celebrate Winter.
By the next morning,
snow-glitter veiled roofs and decks,
grass-blades bent, ice-frosted,
brittle petals shivered, frozen.
Robins gathered at my heated birdbath
like office workers around a water cooler.
Feathers fluffed, bellies round as balls,
they chipped and chirped,
dipped their beaks, bobbed up,
eyed each other.
Until a squirrel came to drink.
Then they flew off together,
all but one brave robin who perched on the porch rail,
squinting over his feathered shoulder,
his back to the squirrel.
When at last the squirrel scampered off,
a mockingbird took its place,
then a cedar waxwing found his way,
maybe straying from his flock,
maybe the only one to spy
and wisely fly
to an unfrozen pool.
The squinting robin finally flew,
but probably just to wait in the nearest tree.
Robins share when they have to,
but I think that they think
they own this spot.
And in a world of winter white,
I am content to let them think so.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.

Playful Day

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Dawn came layered in clouds this morning,
a parfait of light and shade,
pale peach and pale blue
turning lavender as I watched.
Out of the layer of peach,
a glow brightened, bloomed,
sparkled out—
the sun bubbled up,
a happy round lemon.
Those who know,
who foretell such things,
say that this will be our day,
an interplay of cloud and sun,
a mix of light and shade,
until the day tires of play,
leaving a mountainous cloudscape
in the west,
which will flatten, crestfallen
into a field of darkening gray.
The wind will sigh, strong and gusty,
and the playful day
will settle
into an evening
of rain.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.

The Changing Weather of Peace

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Peace and stillness—
sometimes they go together,
sometimes they don’t.
Like wind,
peace can breeze in softly,
but it can also whistle sparkling cold
through cracks in closed hearts.
Wake up, it says, all will be well.
There’s a pensive peace
that watches the sky for storm clouds.
There’s peace that sighs in relief
when trouble skims past,
simply rocking branches, teasing leaves.
Then there’s peace that weathers the storm
like a boulder unmoved,
the tree left standing.
And there’s a festive peace,
noisy and fresh as a sudden spring shower,
full of laughter, lifted glasses, shared stories.
This holiday season held that peace for me—
a flowing, swirling, rushing peace
of listening and watching the joy of family,
the gratitude of gathering,
the hope of health and happiness to come.
Now that family has left
and I sit alone in my family room,
the stillness returns.
Peace drifts down like silent snow,
and I know that peace
is the weather
of the healing heart.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.