I Watched A Leaf Fall

There was no struggle,

No fight,

Not even a protest

Against January's might.

There was no petition to thwart her frosty rain or

Proclamation to sustain another day.

There was only a slight fluttering in the falling away.

Chariot awaiting, Leaf released her long

Love affair with Limb

And rode a limber breeze

To Ground's fertile embrace,

While I espied the skies through my kitchen window

As I peacefully rocked mi nieto,

Hazel eyes affably bowing to Sleep.

Both sweet deeds left me intrigued

At Nature's wordless ease

Of showing us how to navigate the maze of our days,

Segueing from one calm dignity into another,

The rendezvous better and better,

Minus the demand to command what is out of our hands.

It was all there in the falling of one leaf today.

The Golden Goddess

January 23, 2010

Photographed Words

The color purple regals me with serendipity, and I become one with all that I see, a SistahGyrl Walt Whitman, eyeing and being eyed under the evening skies. If I sit statuesque, not batting a lash, the bluebirds may dash across the soft ground to find the the organic peanuts The Duck Man tossed amongst the greenery. In silent contemplation, I recall his one-sided sermon and stern command for me to zip my lip, just listen to him rip what saith the Lord. And when I could not oblige, even with Knee-Baby Sis in my ear, on my celly, advising me to adhere, I invisibly disappear, then send him off with my voice unwilling to ban itself into an imposed silence...

I love the feel of a camera, the sleekness of a pen. With them, I photograph my thoughts in Stone Mountain wind and hide in friendly shade to frame my thoughts. And color my dreams with gratitude.

I am usually brimming with elation to be alive and free to walk and wander, think and ponder. On my clock and not one that tick tocks my days away engaged in someone else's lists of things. Free, I greet pups and trees and stop to stare at what others might think meaningless, inane and decidedly banal.

My church pews are stone walls no higher than my thighs, so I bring my little brown cushion and get comfy to worship in stillness. Listen to the wind. Appreciate a chorus of quacks quacked near the bevy of rods bobbing off the stone bridge in the distance. I am a fisherwoman. My rod is this camera, this pen. My words reel you in. Where we abide for a moment in which we are magically one.

Pink blooms adorn my locs and smear my smile. I have always nursed a penchant for the color. Elusive, it plays peek-a-boo with your skewered attention, appearing and disappearing to reappear in luscious places, in sweet crevices, between lime leaves and warm golden columns.

I imagine I can see forever through the silent sentry of the trees. Across water deeper than mythological rivers in my mind that remind me of Hughes-deep rivers, I come down with tunnel vision, see my love, see her see me, and I wade out into cerulean glass, waving, blowing kisses, thankful she recognizes me.

Together, we walk into a tomorrow in which you are free enough to be you, and me be me, free just like the small bird that sings loud though I know he's small and sweet back off in night woods on Stone Mountain. At times, I remember fear and tell him to be quiet lest something larger hears and comes to call, silencing his melodies faster than my footfalls tap a path to my car in a deserted parking lot.

A sisterfriend can be found amongst the sunset

Leaning on her bike
Her brown eyes ablaze with

talk of mothers and triumph

and welcome mats they toss

before they crowd the house

with the smell of walled

fish grease

On the paths of Stone Mountain, I am at home, comfortably ensconsed on stony pews looking across water rippled with Goddess breath. In the sunshine, amongst the shadows, away from the walking, riding, running, skateboarding throngs, I wrap myself in gratitude. Divinity caresses me, undresses my heart, demanding I part with worries and cares.

Scenes from the Heartland

My paternal grandparents' five-room mansion in Tuskegee, Alabama. Will and Sophia Moss reigned supreme in my adolescent memory here.

A side view of Grandma's house. Since she was the last to live in it, outside of my brother Delton when she passed, I think of the house as Grandma's.

A view up the road from the house, on the right, where Cousin Tot and Cousin Walter used to live. Their grown children have returned to the land now.

The sun was setting on my walk one day during Thanksgiving 08.

This is my gorgeous knee-baby sis Athera Everlener and her dashing hubby, Terrence, better known as T-Man. They reside in Florida.

My pretty baby sis Katarina, who was named after the Olympic skating star Katarina DeWitt, with her baby son, Man.

My son Avery, chillin' in my busy office

My niece and I post up on the steps of my Dad's new church in Little Texas, Alabama.

My knee-baby sis, Miz Glenda, regaling the camera in her home.

My twin brother, Claude, and my fabulous Aunt Marion, Mama's baby sister.

Sister Bernadette, "Chicken," and Unca Tang-Tang, Gladys' brother

My nephews with Calvin's children (Acy is on the right)

Members of the family pose for Christmas pics.

Down in Florida, I prepare to enjoy dinner and jazz with baby sis and hubby at Mango's, while Auntie Tawanna babysits their three sons.

Gorgeous Auntie Marion and her handsome man, Unca Herman.

My exciting sister Glenda and her friend, Steph!

Girls just wanna have fun, from the big to the little ones. That's my little cousin between me and Chicken, and of course my tiny niece, Mykaila.

The fam will pose in a heartbeat!

Chicken and Daddy

Mykaila and Man

I stand strong, like a tree in the sun.

I can still feel the good times when I drive up in the yard.

The house next door to Grandma's is the new homestead. Our cars fill the yard when we visit, and my dad and stepmom are elated to have everyone home.

Heading back down road

My oldest sis, Diane Louise, and her baby girl, Whitney, and her son Kenny and my nephews, Calvin and Acy.

My stepmom, Gladys, takes her daily stroll.

I have always loved trees.

I remember the old lady who used to live here. Her mailbox yet held vestiges of her mail no one had removed.

Deer hunters rumbling towards their venison.

There's my little Mykaila

A view from the left, up the road

I could walk this road forever. It reminds me of the road in Flannery O'Connor's story about Pheonix, the old Black woman hunting medicine for her grandson.

There are patches of water on the land.

Gladys gets her exercise now, even if she goes it alone.

My dad on his tractor, doing what he loves to do, as Unca Tang makes his way to the house.

Cousin Tot's boy's home

Family in the distance

The graveyard behind my deacon dad's church

Here we go again, grinning for posterity

Me gusta la tierra...

My brother-in-law, Rosevelt Stitts, graces Grandma's porch with me last Thanksgiving '08.

A fruit tree grows in my dad's front yard steps away from Sister Katarina's car.