My sleep-filled eyes take in the constant that is dawn. Through a treeline, budding with green, with trunk and limb and twig still black with the cold of winter, I gratefully accept the interruption of day.

I wake to a sky drowning in hues of orange, a soothing contrast to the grey of the frost absorbing the edges of moonset, clamoring and clinging to the last shreds of night’s end.

The stunning daylight is tenacious; she stubbornly saves her reveal until the outstretched arms, under the new dome of blue secure the last light of the night.

Welcome my Nature God, and your generous dousing of cyan to color the day.

Bring me your sunrise oh glorious life. Take me to borrowed tomorrows timed by the reliable turn of the planet and season.

Open my eyes wide to the gifts of the living. Wash me in rainstorms, introduce fertile earth to the air.

Let me nurture within me, these moments of transition; free me from winter, feed me spring’s song.


Give me crocus to worship, tender-hearted lovers to hold; a coupling seduction until I grow old. 


#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.




The sun sets behind me on the drive home from the lake.

It is a brilliant cup-of-the-sun, the top shrouded by clouds, the reddest of reds, chasing me home.

I feel it holds a million what ifs, and it might pour them over me if I will slow down for just a moment and let it cover me in sweetness.

I couldn’t get a picture-  but in an instant, it changes.

Sun, she is woman?

Suddenly the sunset is reversed and I  only see the upper half, and the sky is silver now.

I realize beauty changes, how our idea of beauty changes- it sneaks up behind us and changes us- always for the better.

Oh…they are all beautiful….sunrises, sunsets…all different, but the same.

Day comes in, day goes out;  the constants in this life.


So grateful to have the world continue her rhythms while I try and keep up with life’s pace.


for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web or a thousand others who photograph, and share, and trust the sunsets of our days.


Believe by Being


The Nakedness of Woman is the Work of God by William Blake

If I were forced to go to church,

I would worship at the altar

of the naked female body,

my head bowed down

in reverent respect.

Tiny diminutive shoulders and full-round breasts;

smooth silky skin and curvaceous wide hips;

which flare out forming the shape of a heart;

long long slender legs that come to a point,

in the dusky wonder of her groin;

the female form divine,

so different from mine,

soft and yielding,


I have done nothing more beautiful in my life

than in solemn silence pass the night

slowly running the back of my hand

along the length of her body

in the pale moonlight.

drinking in with my eyes

the glory and divinity

of the nakedness of woman.

She takes a pull of the sweet dark brew while he closes boxes containing the nudes.

He: I agree with Blake and couldn’t have written it more beautifully. And your figure is every bit as beautiful as what is on his page.

She: Thank you, and regardless of the truth of your statement, Brian’s work makes it believable. He enjoys giving women, the gift of not just feeling beautiful, but being beautiful….the tangible, touchable, beautiful proof printed on canvas and therefore, undeniable, even to her own mind’s eye… Smiles. Now Back to work here.


Knowing the number of women who would lend themselves to his lens and better, pay him for it, she kept telling him he needed to market this gift, let them walk in the mist with him, quit his day job.  He would shrug his shoulders, send her into the forest, raise his camera and instruct her to drop her dress, again.   

#for Reticent Mental Property. Poetry courtesy of http://www.rjgeib.com.  Shameless photographer recommend: naturalimaging@yahoo.com  http://modelsociety.com/Photographer/Natural-Imaging . Photo from NI gallery, Spring 2013.

Quote Day- It does to Them


“Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist-a master-and that is what Auguste Rodin was-can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is…and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be…and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply imprisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart…no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn’t matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired-but it does to them.” 
― Robert A. Heinlein


Read some Heinlein. Read anything. Read. 

# for Reticent Mental Property on Quote Day.  Picture credit to the web at Artistsandillustrators.co.uk