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
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.