When I witness your existence
as you navigate the distance
from the origin of purpose to the peak,
I am humbled by persistence
past the line of least resistance
in your resolute pursuit of what you seek.
If the summit view’s unveiling
isn’t subject to assailing
every obstacle positioned on the path
with invincible curtailing
of the mortal fear of failing,
what conceals the struggle from its aftermath?
Let us climb the hill together
as we both escape the tether
of conditioning that binds us to our birth,
for the thesis isn’t whether
we are made of wood or leather
but how feathered faith can soar above the earth.
2021 Mary Boren
A canopy of cumulus projection
aligns itself enticingly and spills
its cotton candy succulent confection
across the canvas of the Texas hills.
A viewer, from the vantage of a hammock,
anticipates the daily matinee
with vapors in their drama-packed dynamic
of interactive whimsical display.
But, looking down upon the scene, King Cirrus
harumphs a haughty epithet, “The stage
is mine alone today!” And with the merest
regard he scatters all in jealous rage.
The lively cast of Comal County Clouds
will never fail to entertain the crowds.
2020 Mary Boren
As Winter mounts his harsh assault
does Nature cringe, assigning fault?
A sodden path serenely weaves
through barren trees without regret.
She knows regeneration waits
while metamorphosis creates
fulfillment in a promise met —
the aftermath of rustling leaves.
Mary Boren, 2017
Expressions of the human heart traverse a labyrinth.
The smallest thought can hold a thousand seeds.
A sigh, a burst of merriment, a kindness, or a prayer
is balanced on the crux of vows and deeds.
‘Neath petals of a dandelion that cluster round the stem,
inert until its power is released,
a dormant seed lies waiting to be scattered on the wind,
but only when the flower is deceased.
So wishing for a miracle and holding fast to hope
is nothing but a mental exercise.
The miracle occurs before a thought is fully born —
it’s letting go that sends it through the skies.
Mary Boren, 2012
Secluded in a woodland glade,
the bunnies, fawns and squirrels stir
to mothers’ nudges. Silently,
they stretch their legs and fluff their fur.
The muted hues of dawn exude
seclusion. In a woodland glade,
no raucous horns intrude upon
the day’s impending promenade.
Along the misty river, birds
begin to fill the hush with tune.
Secluded in a woodland glade,
they celebrate til half past noon.
How often in the bustling world
assaulted by the noise we’ve made,
our spirits yearn for reverie,
secluded in a woodland glade.
Mary Boren, 2011
The form is quatern.
In the soft lavender haze,
three does graze in the yard.
Heads down, of necessity;
guard lowered … never.
As I tiptoe to a closer vantage point,
my knee brushes the rocker by the window
and it protests with a gutteral creak.
Instantly, they morph
into a trio of lawn statues.
Seconds pass like minutes.
They leap the tall grass
in a single scattershot blast!
Moving in unison
on a primal cue,
they have melded into the trees
before I can remember to exhale.
Seated with my coffee, in the comfort
and relative safety of home,
curiosity sets in.
(It could kill the cat,
but lack of it can down a deer.)
Was there ever a time they knew trust,
or were they predestined prey?
Is raw fear the trade-off
for beauty, grace,
and direct communion with the earth?
Could humans adapt
to live in such a state
of perpetual anxiety?
Or have we?
Mary Boren, 2011
Sweet southern hostess ladies, primly clad
and buttoned-up, how dare they call you wild?
As faithfully you line our roads, you add
a glimpse of simple beauty undefiled.
What wealth of wisdom might your prudent lips
reveal, if asked, to those of us who wind
our way past thistled shoulders on our trips
without an inkling of the task assigned?
Perhaps you’d tell of pioneers who flinched
at coyote cries that filled the midnight air
but never lost the ground they’d gained or inched
a millimeter closer to despair.
We thank you for the legacy you bring
to Texas travelers each hopeful spring.
Mary Boren, 2002
Image by Dr. Thomas G. Barnes, USFWS (CCL)
On the river, life is sweet;
love abounds and time’s a trickle.
Occupants of one petite
recreational vehicle —
Charley, me, and furry Ted —
treasure days and nights together;
share a table, porch and bed
by the river.
In the morning, songbirds call,
eagles soar, and squirrels scurry.
Solaces the waterfall:
“All is well, no need to hurry.
Here beneath the cottonwood,
touch the realm that knows forever.”
Peace of mind is understood
on the river.
On a lazy afternoon
from a hammock swayed by breezes,
our extended honeymoon
sets the schedule. If it pleases,
go canoeing from the park,
laughing, feeling not so clever
overturned at ten ’til dark
in the river.
After supper, by the fire,
ears attuned to night so thick it’s
teeming with the heart’s desire,
hooting owl and chirping crickets
underscore the dreamy mood.
Loving is a shared endeavor,
with a prayer of gratitude
for the river.
Mary Boren, 2006