I will be alive
when I am dead,
did you know that?
I will not be still
like a hard stone,
as roses do,
as robins do,
as the heart
as the mycelium
under the soil,
at a moment’s notice.
you have arrived,
in your fuzzy silver coat,
searching black beak,
and sooty eyes,
such a tiny bit
of eagle next to
your giant father,
hovering over the nest,
letting you see
your new world,
feeding you bits
of fresh fish,
beside two eggs
holding your sisters
a few more hours.
Bald Eagle father surveys his realm for the tiny brood.
small domes of gray
they come to pray
or maybe say
what we can’t today
Ink Drawing © Marilyn Peretti
They Soar for Us
Sign of good air and water,
the bald eagles soar once again,
their strong and regal stature
an inspiration for our own survival.
Here in December, the pair
are tending twigs in their nest,
and bringing in dry grasses
for the soft baby beds
needed later in March
when three smooth white eggs
and both will protect them
even from wind and snows
of late winter.
Mom, with her “eye shadow” & less than snowy head.
Juvenile invades parents’ nest!
Pair altering the architecture of last year’s nest!
Halloween-orange peers up
from between fall leaves
and the old log ending in saw marks.
Yes, it’s October’s color.
Wearing bell-shaped caps,
these small mushrooms
brighten the woods
and my heart
with their red-orange paint,
and their bold notion of attracting
old softies like me.
A Fall Find
Watercolor © Marilyn Peretti
When we think of colors, just as colors,
we think confusion for they overwhelm
in their array, bouncing off the back of the eye
in their clothing of hues. I wanted red,
but was told red is too something—
too vivid, too bright, running too much
like blood. So I turned to yellow, since
I admire tangy lemons, and even dirtied gold
of late sunflowers, droopy in their hangovers.
Mixing them with water, in varying degrees
of course, thins the primaries into new
shades, the middles, the pales, the pinks
and baby blue. Oh yes, blues, but not
that slow poignant music of lost love;
the midnights, the cornflowers, the jay,
and the bay at midday when the sun
tells the sky to be on the water.
And swirling them together with
a paintbrush is the most fun, inventing
purple, orange, rose, teal and muddy
brown, the color we carefully avoid,
that lowdown earthy color, which reminds
us of grimy work and life’s clutter—
the contempt, the unredeemable,
unplanned, muddled life, jealousy,
and all the colorless days.
Like Straw Now, April 1
Like straw now,
heavy marsh grasses
lie useless, broken,
trees without a leaf
circle dark water,
mere black skeletons,
yet through the open window
hundreds of peepers surprise
with loud singing, under
a sun there to waken,
like a curtain going up on
this stage of earthtime,
a sharp stroke of color
across a nearly dead drama.