Autumn Sunrise

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

I rose early on this chilly morning,
and the autumn sun rose late.
Perfect timing, our rising together.
Since we have crossed paths,
the sun and I,
I have paused (for she will not),
and I’m watching her paint the world.
Fiery and free,
ancient and newborn,
fresh and faithful,
this delicious, joy-filled,
silent laughter of first light
warms the world with color.
Morning’s smile
splashes the tops of the turning trees,
sparking their leaves
into flaming reds and yellows.
Liquid light trickles down tree trunks,
flows like a gentle incoming tide
across lawns and down streets,
streams through windows,
floods the floor,
leaves puddles of molten gold.
Dawn’s light is a gracious gift,
generous bright bounty of the universe,
the new day’s silent hum
whispering to the heart
with wordless wisdom,
Here, here,
here’s a new day for you.
Good,
good,
good
morning.
You’re awake,
our paths have crossed,
now it’s your turn
to paint the world with goodness,
with light.
It’s your turn
to step out and
shine!
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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Tiny Green Dragons

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

All summer, a line of tiny green dragons
has been slowly creeping
up the outer wall of my neighbor’s house.
Each dragon, from wing tip to wing tip,
is the width of my outspread hand
and is made of a collection of leaves.
Like a disciplined line of determined ants,
these small, leafy dragons
follow one after the other,
evenly spaced along a tightrope stem.
My mind traces their path
as if my fingers were drawing it—
the angles,
the curves,
the negative spaces,
the quiet climb,
the gentle stretch,
the touch of tendril to red brick
that heats in the sun
and chills in the cool night,
the cling that holds the vine tight
in wind and lashing rain.
A vine is persistently persistent,
tenaciously tenacious,
grasping at the next available surface,
in this case, iron bars of a spiral staircase.
The vine curls around the first bar,
the second,
the third,
follows its shape spiraling upward
to the second floor landing.
There it stops and celebrates this feat
by blooming into orange trumpets
all along the dragon-leaf path,
giving itself to butterflies
and hummingbirds
and me.
A gust of wind
and a scattering of leaves swirl down.
The vine simply shivers
and clings and blooms.
It will soon turn brown and brittle.
The little dragons will let go
and fly away with the wind.
I will witness this wonder,
keep a winter watch,
and wait for spring
when once again,
a line of tiny green dragons
will start their warm-weather journey
up the wall of my neighbor’s house.
-kh-

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Dreaming Between Photographs

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

I sleep between past and future.
On the wide windowsill to one side of my bed,
a single frame holds black and white photos
of my mom and dad, newlyweds,
shortly after World War II.
On the left, Mom stands at the kitchen sink,
apron over her sweater and skirt,
smiling at the camera while
washing a white enameled pot.
On the right, Dad also smiles at the camera.
He wears a suit and bow tie
and sits at a breakfast table,
a cup of coffee in hand,
a newspaper spread before him.
On the windowsill on the other side of my bed,
a single picture frame holds color school photos
of two of my grandchildren, whose mom is Japanese.
Before Dad died at 95,
he pointed out that in the war,
he joined the Navy to fight the Japanese.
Now, here, decades later,
his granddaughter-in-law was from Japan,
two of his great-grandchildren were half Japanese,
and he dearly loved them all.
Who could have predicted it?
I would say the thought blew his mind.
He would simply laugh softly and say,
“Isn’t that something!”

I sleep between that past and future.
I live between that past and future.
I dream between that past and future,
hoping that someday all of us will see each other
with new, clear, gracious eyes
and that fear and anger over our differences
will dissipate like a fog in the sunlight
and we will see each other
with open hearts,
with wonder,
and softly laugh and say,
“Isn’t that something!”
For it really is something.
It’s peace.
It’s joy.
It’s the mystery and brilliance
of love.
-kh-

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Deep-Night Prowling

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

It’s midnight
when a sound wakes me,
a thud from downstairs.
I listen, alert for a second,
then settle back into my pillow.
I know that sound.
The cat has jumped down from a chair.
Or maybe a counter.
Thud.
Always a perfect landing.
She is a deep-in-the-night prowler.
She snuggles next to me in bed,
our breathing soft and gentle,
but I wake some time later
to realize she’s missing.
She has slipped away to prowl again.
But she’ll be back.
I listen for another bump,
another thud.
All is quiet.
I pull the covers to my chin.
It seems such a little-girl thing to do,
this tucking in,
but my night prowling happens
only when I slip into my dreams.
I breathe easy, trusting that
I’ll be back,
most likely to find
a dozing cat at my side.
-kh-

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I Know Nothing…Except

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

I know nothing except
the cat jumps into my lap every evening
and settles in,
purring as if all is right
in her cat-centric world.

I know nothing except
the feel of the pillow beneath my head,
cushioning me,
holding me
for hours on end.

I know nothing except
the mockingbird has somehow decided
that my yard is his,
and the rabbit that lives out back
has claimed what the bird has left open.

I know nothing except
the flavor of dark chocolate
satisfies me in a way
that milk chocolate doesn’t.

I know nothing except
my own heart on this day
is full of roller-coaster feelings,
zig-zag and see-saw
crest the hill,
careen down the other side,
and I know nothing except
the fact that I will hold on
and ride it as long as I possibly can.

I know nothing except
I am here.
I am breathing.
I am feeling.
Deeply feeling.
I am here,
healing and whole.
-kh-

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Where is the Wake-up Chorus?

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Dawn quietly drifts
into my world this morning.
Too quietly.
I wonder where the usual wake-up chorus is,
the sweet greeting of birdsong.
I make my way outdoors,
but I see no birds.
None at the feeder,
none on the porch rail,
none at the birdbath.
A solo twitter sounds high in an elm.
A sharp chip-chip-chip comes
from a hedge.
A distant crow caws, and then
nothing.
Nothing at all.
I peer up into the morning-blue sky
with its drift of summer clouds.
I’m watching for a hawk.
I don’t see one, but
the songbirds know better than I,
and they seem to have made
a strategic, silent retreat.
I know people who have taken
a silent retreat,
a week or so away from home,
not speaking,
not being spoken to,
resting in silence,
trusting its soft strength,
listening
for the secrets it whispers to the soul.
I’ve never gone on a silent retreat,
although I do welcome silence.
Even so, as I stand here
watching a tiny twig
twirl like a weather vane
as it dangles from a spider web,
I miss the background music
of morning birdsong.
I look upward once again.
The clouds have shifted,
a breeze brushes the treetops.
Through the open spaces
where I can see sky
between branches and thick leaves,
I glimpse a glide of dark wings,
a hawk looking for breakfast.
I close my eyes
and inhale the serenity of the moment.
I will keep quiet with the songbirds.
I will wish them a safe, peaceful
silent retreat.
-kh-

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Love Holds the Weight

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

My neighbor steps out onto his back porch
holding his baby in the crook of his arm.
She looks around eagerly,
her small arm light on his shoulder.
She is not afraid of falling,
and she won’t, not in his arms.
I’ve held my own children just this way,
so I know this:
She will grow heavier,
holding will become harder,
and falling is inevitable—
but not from his arms.
And when the day comes
when he can no longer pick her up,
his heart will continue to hold her
with an invisible strength, often unnoticed.
This is the wonder of love,
the way we hold each other.
Like air holds clouds aloft,
like the sea holds whales suspended,
like light holds the mystery of years gone by,
our hearts carry each other.
Love expands and makes space.
Love holds the weight it needs to hold.
-kh-

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These are the Days

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

These are the days
of searing sidewalks, sharp shadows,
and pop-up rainstorms
that leave the garden drooping,
dripping,
steaming.
These are the days of sweltering heat
tiptoeing timidly toward 100º,
days when I carry an insulated bag
filled with cold packs to cool off
as I wait for my grandson
in the mid-afternoon pick-up line at school.
These are the days when I wonder
how the birds cope,
why they don’t crumple to a crisp.
How do they sing so fresh and clear
in the heat of a breezeless afternoon?
These are the days when I remember
that the sun is a ball of fire
giving life to the earth
even though it’s on the edge of
boiling us for dinner.
These are also the days
when one leaf falls here,
another drifts down there,
autumn’s tiny ads for upcoming events.
One leaf on the crape myrtle turns orange,
standing out among the green,
seed pods ripen,
the Virginia creeper begins to blush.
But it’s not autumn yet,
not for a few weeks more.
With a hot, gusty sigh,
summer admits she’s dragging her feet,
dozy, droopy,
drained of energy
but not ready to relinquish her reign.
So I’ll keep the fans out
and the ice packs handy,
for these are the high, hot, heady days
of summer.
-kh-

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There’s a Cat in My Lap

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Basil and marigolds
are starting to droop in their pots
and I really should water them,
but there’s a cat on my lap,
curled up and cozy,
so I watch twilight
paint the sky lavender
and darken to purple.
I need to change the air filter
in my refrigerator.
I have the replacement out
on the counter,
ready to go,
but there’s a cat in my lap,
eyes closed, breathing softly,
so I watch the lights come on
in the neighbors’ windows,
squares of warm gold,
friendly islands
in the deepening darkness.
I thought I might read
as I sit here rocking,
or answer some emails,
but my hands are folded under
a cat in my lap,
so I notice the white that perfectly outlines
her gray-brown ears.
I really need to wash the dishes
and take out the trash.
Feel free to tell me so,
but, you see,
there’s a cat in my lap,
and I am grateful,
for she is old,
she is faithful,
she is even now teaching me
to rest,
to wait,
to see all that would have gone unnoticed
if she had not settled down in my lap.
So the basil and marigolds can wait,
and the refrigerator filter, too.
I can read and answer emails later,
and the dishes aren’t going anywhere.
There’s a cat in my lap,
so I take the hint,
settle in,
close my eyes,
and breathe softly,
purrfectly content.
-kh-

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Where Does This Key Go?

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

There once was a key
that opened—or locked—
something important,
which made the key important too.
Now it sits among a number of keys so old
that no one remembers
what they open
or what they lock.
They all live rather jumbled
on a set of hooks in a pantry
or on the side wall of a hall
or collected in a drawer.
Each key was once important,
kept safe at hand and not to be lost,
to be shared only with someone trusted
who might need to unlock a suitcase
or access the fire safe
or open the house to look after the cat
or water the houseplants
or find a spot of safety in time of trouble.
But that was some time ago;
the keys are all jumbled now and—
what does this key go to?
We never throw away keys at my house,
for we have a feeling that as soon as we do,
we’ll need just exactly the key we tossed out.
But I know what will happen:
when we’re gone, our children,
maybe our grandchildren,
will open the pantry,
or look askance at the hooks on the side wall
or slide open a drawer
and find a scramble of keys.
They will pick them up one at a time.
What does this key go to? they will ask.
(I know, because I did exactly this
when my parents died.)
They will examine the shape and cut of the keys,
make their best guesses,
try them in locks around the house,
joke about hidden treasure,
(hoping maybe it’s not a joke).
In the end,
who will say, just throw them away?
Who will try every key in every lock in the house?
Who will take home a box of keys
in the event that someone someday will need
one of those exact keys
(also in case of hidden treasure)?
No matter either way—
keep the keys or toss them—
the act of puzzling, sorting,
remembering, crying, laughing
is the real key.
It’s the key to tomorrow
and the next day
and the next.
What does that key go to?
What does it unlock?
It
unlocks
everything.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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Carry the Calm

Karyn Henley

Autumn Sunrise

Tiny Green Dragons

Dreaming Between Photographs

Deep-Night Prowling

I Know Nothing…Except

Where is the Wake-up Chorus?

Love Holds the Weight

These are the Days

There’s a Cat in My Lap

Where Does This Key Go?