Sparrows gather in the roses,

companionable and comfortable

among thorns and perfume petals.


A longhorn beetle sensitively explores

with antenna, legs, and mouth parts,

working its way along a blade of grass.


A buzzard floats, wide open

above purple and golden grasses,

certain in the air passing its wings.


A lone woman looks out at

distant, dark, silver-edged mountains,

sensing both earth and groundlessness.


Each one a snowflake falling –

unique, precious, and free –

gone – gone – gone…


Mary Booker 22.07.2023


Swifts are writing in the sky again,

flinging their strength, agility,

and fragility across the vast page.

I can’t read swift.

I imagine it’s about freedom, life, joy –

but when I listen deeply,

I hear urgency, hunger,

and the need to move on.

Look closely.  Stay awhile.

What can be seen?

A black and silver striped fly

with dark red eyes

delicately walks on its bent legs –

walking and touching –

walk and touch.  Swifts and flies.

What does this say?

What story does it tell about the sacred?

Mary Booker 08.07.2023