There is no snow,
in my part of Ontario

There is no snow,
on the beach.
Just a dike,
of crusty
white ice.

Sand on the street.
Brown streets.
Not white.

water.
Beauty,
in the browns,
the blues,
the greys.
And every shade
in between.
There is no snow,
in my part of Ontario
There is no snow,
on the beach.
Just a dike,
of crusty
white ice.
Sand on the street.
Brown streets.
Not white.
Beauty,
in the browns,
the blues,
the greys.
And every shade
in between.
A chick-a-dee
lands
On an out stretched
hand.
Confident,
Bold,
Self assured.
A human friend
Among the flock.
In a treetop,
down on the
ground.
It peeks,
and it peeks,
at the seeds,
inside.
A suspended
perch,
above
the ground.
Raindrops,
like dew drops,
glitter
on the ground.
They sparkle
and
they shimmer.
They don't make a sound.
Water for spiders,
for bugs,
and for flies.
For beetles,
for slugs,
and bees
near their hives.
Gathered like lace,
their patterns
sublime.
Beautifully placed
in the swirling
abyss
of time.
water ebbs
water flows
over fingers
over toes
it washes your face
it cleanses your soul
leaving a trace
making you whole
it swims through your mind
it tickles your feet
it makes you smile
at those you meet
I love it
as water
I love it
as ice
water
it waters the world
making
everything right
The things you see, when you look between the trees, is sort of like. Reading between the lines.
A 180 acre park, Black River Wilderness Park is owned and operated by the Chippewas of Rama First Nations.
On this last day of the season, the tents and the RVs have left the grounds. A single campfire fills the air with an earthy smell of smoke.
In the midst of our great Canadian landscape, amongst the trees, and the lakes, and the rocks, we discovered The Tree Museum.
Just follow the little blue arrows, and the little blue signs. After a kilometer, or two, and you will happen upon the entrance to the Tree Museum.
Before the entrance, God has his work on display.
A mailbox contains a guest book. We left our names among the rest of the worldly travelers who have discovered this beautiful retreat into the wilderness.
Having just recently recovered from a bout of covid19, I started this outing a little overconfident in my level of fitness and endurance, so we are leaving the rest of tour for a different day.
We have so much more to explore!
Who is the poet of the flower?
The answer changes by the hour.
Petals of
blue,
and of white,
and of pink.
The scent of the flower,
Cause the poet to think.
The stem,
The stalk,
Where in
The flower's beauty
Locks.
Grown
In sand, and soil,
And rock.
God's paint brush
Moves,
With grace and ease.
Beauty, found and sought.