Quieter Mind

I have met
the quieter mind

here in the valley

of brown and dun
trees

where clouds
softly sit
just between hills,

a shiver of wind
flutters the leaves,

and the mist
wisps away
like spectres.

The mind
does not stir

deeply earthed

– it shivers

a cloud in a lake
it quivers

and is gone.

I wrote this in Scotland where I stayed in a cabin in the hills for a week for solitude, reflection and nature. The early October colors of nature inspired me, as did the still, reflective Loch Voil.

If you like this poem, you might like my short story Hiro, published on Page & Spine this week.

http://pagespineficshowcase.com/stories/hiro-giulietta-m-spudich

Leave me a comment and tell me what you think! Thanks, Giulietta

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Green

I am green
but not with envy
– with ivy

the deep ferns
of a rich, fragrant
forest

the color of oak
leaves
and redwood
needles

I drink deep
and deeper
through new roots

My human body
is not my
real body

my green body
comes awake

You cry for me
but each day
I grow closer

to the sky

my leaves unfurl
and drink in the rich
love of the sun.

I go from pale
to such a vibrant color
you’ve never seen.

Happy New Year to my readers. This poem was inspired by walking in nature (the Cambridge Botanic Gardens) and also reflecting on growth, change, death and what it is- can there be death without something new sprouting? May we all find the green.

Between Breaths

I am held
in the stillness
between breaths

whirls of
change
around me.

I will catch up
later
I think

as the moon
grows full
and illuminates
my face

as the birds
land near
and look for seeds.

I am still
though night
comes

though the wind
lifts my hair
and says

“You are here.”
“You are here.”

I wrote this poem in the Scottish highlands, amidst beautiful hills, forest and lakes.

Wild Garlic

Whistling,
she carries wildflowers
and wild garlic
stains her sleeve.

She is not
from the city

I stare
at the white blossoms
caught in her hair.

My shoes
on the pavement
her hair blows wild.

Songbirds chitter,
pip, squeak
in the bordering trees

in a startling thunder
of wings
they fly.

Her laugh
takes to the sky.

She, an earthed breeze
in a close London square.

I stare
at white blossoms
caught in her hair.

White Moon and Rose

The white moon
weeps the
color of night

and each of your
tears
is a star
upon the floor.

Red-eyed birds
sing
to your
red, raw heart

and take wing
in the rose-colored
morning.

Though
the color of night
still dreams on
your skin

dawn
dresses you
in softer
pink skirts.

Don’t be afraid
to carry them
both

the pines will
know

one who loves
still walks
in this world.