Silk Creek Review V

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Photography and Poetry by Lori Epperson


                                 A Healing Vibration

                                 Accepted aspects of plants are applied to my life.
                                 How do I respond? I need to accept that ripening and maturing
                                               are naturally arduous answers.
                                 Experience has taught me hope, and every spring reminds me of
                                 Appreciation. I am alone to process,
                                 Look outside to see
                                 Intuitively, the sights, sounds, smells, and textures.
                                 Nourish myself in a natural sanctuary,
                                 Give myself great comfort apart from a
                                 Very sterile and artificial vanity, but
                                 I'm no earth goddess. I've just
                                 Been wondering how I make a difference,
                                             been unable to affect the value,
                                                        been wanting to stop the bleeding.
                                 Richly impoverished and famously unknown
                                 Are all searching for creative pursuits.
                                 That which is the process of letting go of those we love
                                 Is an art that calls for communing with the nature
                                 Of a garden's magic,
                                 Now giving that art back to my world.


Though she can't speak
She cries out very much.
Velvet petals of red and pink
Reach out for my touch.

Tender seedlings struggle
For their place in my garden.
Against a weeded jungle
My heart has hardened.

She senses my presence;
Flourishes when I'm there.
I'm quieted by her essence
In return for her care.

Pushing fingers through soil,
My cells will rejuvenate.
It's for love I should toil;
A spiritual connection to cultivate.

But I have neglected her,
And myself likewise.
Physically we need each other.
It's our Life Source we recognize


Listen carefully
A soul pricked by thorns
Why do you hate her?
She can only grow
According to the way she's pruned


                                               Dear Mike, the trees are lost in the gray
                                                     that surrounds them today.
                                               Barren branches strain upward with a cry
                                                     to a frozen and lifeless sky
                                                     praying for a brighter day.

                                                Cypress roots are stuck in a muddy bog below,
                                                     don't know which way to go.
                                                Their knees rise up in search of solace
                                                     uncertain of their purpose
                                                     in this lonely winter cold.

                                                This season of solitude no lover can defeat,
                                                     you've left me incomplete.
                                                I wander through the trees aimlessly
                                                     getting bored shamelessly
                                                     with every man I meet.

                                                Spanish moss desperately clings to it's due,
                                                     like I cling to you.
                                                But your ashes have grown cold
                                                     with nothing left to hold,
                                                     I need someone to talk to.

                                                Beneath the reflections lie decaying leaves
                                                     whose color the bog bereaves.
                                                I'm stuck in a world of wintry dead
                                                     a shivering stillness within my head;
                                                     cries you once consoled, aren't perceived.