Barb Whitmarsh
Bayou City Branch, Texas

There I sit
Done with trees
Their rugged hide
Their fallen leaves

Ended the garden
At mid-lawn
With vibrant roses
And firethorn

Through with birds
On twig or in flight
Chirping in mornings
Hooting in nights

Finished with stars
Zodiac members
Burned out long ago
All that’s left – embers

No more verses
On oceans and waves
Their ships with cargo
And bereft slaves

All things come
Eventually to halt
It isn’t the plants’
Or animals’ fault

It is the pen
Though often a shock
But will entice again
To end writer’s block

Elizabeth Diane Martin
Pikes Peak Branch, Colorado

In turmoil and distrust
In the midst of fear and confusion
A decision to love
Changed a wandering
Wondering heart
Into one that found
Its roots
And began to grow.

It is the flow of love
That causes
New branches
To push out from
Its wizened trunk.

Solid and unmoved
Supporting and
Reaching
Toward
Its eventual fruit.

What a long, long
Journey
It seems
But, Oh!
The satisfaction
Of reaching
The destination!

Then its
Fallen seed
Sinks below,

And, if
Good ground
Surrounds it,
A new life begins
Its own journey.
Searching,
Winding,
Reaching,

Not knowing
But steadily returning to
Its programmed desire
For the fruit,
So beyond
The thought
Of its daily work.

Dear Reader,
Decide also
To love.

Linda Farmer Ames
Columbus Branch, Georgia

I, mighty oak, have stood rooted here
for greater than one hundred years,
surrounded by brothers and sisters,
all of Mother Nature’s children.

We poked the skies, loomed over heaps of fallen limbs,
leaves and brush, and beneath all that made homes
for living creatures who died and decayed
to create a bounty of nutrients for growth, rebirth.

Now I stand alone, no longer part of a forest of kin.
My expanse of roots, gnarled and exposed from years of
wind and water, heat and cold, reach out and around.
I remain to give shade, disperse sun’s rays, cool the ground.

The expanse of grasses planted fifty years ago,
groomed faithfully, are fed, managed by
manufactured matter. My limbs have been trimmed
or removed, yet I remain firmly planted among

glass, bricks, mortar, cement and asphalt.
I have survived these ravages dispatched by mankind
who has lived strong and mighty, frail and weak,
who has prevailed. All vulnerable, we live and die in a circle of time.

Bette J. Lafferty
Tampa Branch, Florida

It has been years since we first came to this little park,

where young saplings with limbs so strong

reached to the heavens to catch the popcorn clouds.

I remember our visit as if it were yesterday.

There was that hidden swing where love rose up

and gentle hands pushed against the breeze

and caressed my wounded heart.

You offered me a safe place to be free,

to laugh and to be loved again.

How sad to see the potholes riddling the lane

that once led to a lifetime of intoxicating tomorrows,

days filled with mountains climbed,

where sun-drenched beaches continued for miles and

hours of imaginary fantasy thrilled the child within us.

Now, aged with time,

the mighty oak trees hold only our memories

locked in the circles of their trunks.

Covered with blue-green fungus,

weakened branches cling precariously

waiting for the next strong wind

to take them down.

I know this little park was but for a season.

Yet, I’m thankful for it offered us a lifetime of hope and joy.

I linger for a moment longer,

hesitant to say goodbye

to you and to my dear little park.

But time calls for me to seek a new path

where untold memories are waiting to be made.

And who knows, perhaps, a new love.