Elizabeth Cunningham

Author of The Maeve Chronicles

it is all poetry, even a dark morning

at the end of Fall, twisting oak branches revealed,

small birds and the last lacy leaves still holding fast

rivers and rivulets in the dirt after rain

also branch and curve like trees, and hieroglyphic

trails of mice and birds and bees make more metaphor

a cloudy sky is only dull when you don’t look

into all the layered meanings of grey and white

and catch the subtle motion of this dense, high mist

the rainbow rises and roots in forests of gold

we the lucky ones who find the shining treasure

no need for pockets or sacks to carry it home

a white bird with wide wings flying from wood  to field

huge and silent, not a hawk, could it be an owl?

everything in me quiets to watch and wonder

Elizabeth, what do you need to do but witness?

why do you trouble yourself with judging your worth?

climb the mountains, stand in your backyard, it’s enough