12.18.2025 – hello, sun in my face

hello, sun in my face
watch, now, how I start day in
happiness, kindness

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety—

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light—
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

WHY I WAKE EARLY in Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver by Mary Oliver (Penguin Press: New York, 2017).

This was the moments before the sun came up out of the Atlantic Ocean today, December 18, 2025. One of the shortest days of the year.

I go from fighting with the morning traffics where everyone who has to be to work on 7 am, tries to makes over the bridge and through the woods of Hilton Head Island even though there are only two roads.

The fun part is that for about a half mile before it splits, the road is 5 lanes wide and closes down to two lanes either side of the split.

There are all of us who work on the island and then there are those poor visitors who think they had driven hours to leave the woes of traffic behind.

I do feel sorry for them as I yell at them to get out of my way.

Then off to the left on the little used Cross Island Parkway and all at once I am on the Cross Island Bridge with the only view available on the island because any island in the low country … is FLAT and covered with trees.

And off to my left is the Atlantic Ocean and 1,000s of miles of nothing and the sky and the rising sun.

Best preacher that ever was,

Dear star, that just happens

to be where you are in the universe

to keep us from ever-darkness,

to ease us with warm touching,

to hold us in the great hands of light—

good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day, in happiness, in kindness.

Quite a transformation for the scant miles and few minutes of just a little bit ago.

12.4.2025 – but what is it then

but what is it then
that is here, here in this world,
and … and yet not here?

But what is it then that sits in my heart,
that breathes so quietly, and without lungs—
that is here, here in this world, and yet not here?

Book of Time #7 as published in The Leaf and Cloud by Mary Oliver (Da Capo: New York, 2000)

Park road at Sunset on Pinckney Island, November 2025

The sunset is within 30 days of its lowest point on the horizon and it’s just before 5pm.

The sun shine off to one side and the road curves away.

Here and not yet here.

There is a silence that breathes so quietly and without lungs.

The park closes at 5 p.m.

Well.

The park closes at sunset and today, that is 5 p.m.

The park closes at sunset and the park closes at 5 p.m. both are correct.

They say that the gates will open when you approach from the park side after hours.

But have never wanted to test out this theory.

As the Sheriff in Fort Myers, Florida said about crime after Hurricane Helene, “We have a very active natural night life that discourages after hours looting.”

Time to go.

12.1.2025 – will bring you big things

will bring you big things
the colors of dawn-morning
beauty of rose leaves

A Wooing

I will bring you big things:
Colors of dawn-morning,
Beauty of rose leaves,
And a flaming love.

But you say
Those are not big things,
That only money counts.

Well,
Then I will bring you money.
But do not ask me
For the beauty of rose leaves,
Nor the colors of dawn-morning,
Nor a flaming love.

The collected poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes, , 1902-1967 (New York : Knopf, 1994)

11.30.3035 – mystery of trees

mystery of trees
and water and all living
things borrowing time

Salt Marsh on Pinckney Island, SC at Sunset, Nov 28, 2025

They used to say we’re living on borrowed
time but even when young I wondered
who loaned it to us? In 1948 one grandpa
died stretched tight in a misty oxygen tent,
his four sons gathered, his papery hand
grasping mine. Only a week before, we were fishing.
Now the four sons have all run out of borrowed time
while I’m alive wondering whom I owe
for this indisputable gift of existence.
Of course time is running out. It always
has been a creek heading east, the freight
of water with its surprising heaviness
following the slant of the land, its destiny.
What is lovelier than a creek or riverine thicket?
Say it is an unknown benefactor who gave us
birds and Mozart, the mystery of trees and water
and all living things borrowing time.
Would I still love the creek if I lasted forever?

Debtor by Jim Harrison as published in Songs of Unreason (Copper Canyon Press; 2011).

What is lovelier than a creek or riverine thicket?
Say it is an unknown benefactor who gave us
birds and Mozart, the mystery of trees and water
and all living things borrowing time.

Walking on Pinckney Island, the day after Thanksgiving at stopped at this spot, looking west, where I have stopped hundreds of times.

I have stopped hundreds of times but I have never stopped time other than by capturing a moment using the phone on my camera.

Back it the day, it might have been called a still shot, I guess from the painters, still life.

Nothing about this picture is really still.

The tide is moving the water out at 6 knots.

The Sun is spinning away at 1,000 miles per hour.

The earth tips 1 degree north of south each day depending on the season.

The clouds and marsh grass move with the wind.

Everything is in motion.

All by accident.

No Artificial intelligence.

No photoshop.

Say it is an unknown benefactor who gave us
birds and Mozart, the mystery of trees and water
and all living things borrowing time.

I might have captured the moment but the time is borrowed.

11.22.2025 – that time of year when

that time of year when
yellow leaves, none, or few, hang
shake against the cold

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare.

If you traveled the length and width of Beaufort County, South Carolina you might be hard pressed to find more fall color then is this little patch of trees near where I live.

Beaufort County is 40 miles long and 10 miles deep and covers the coast of South Carolina from Savannah to Charleston.

At high tide, 50% of Beaufort County is underwater.

The salt is in everything and there is not a lot of color you can get out of salt.

Growing up in Michigan, the local forests are a poor player for fall color.

Having lived in Atlanta for years, the local forests are just as lacking for spring color.

The simple pond in the picture has the very real chance to be home to both alligators and water mocassians but it sits in the middle of housing development surrounded by an lawn that invites you to bring a picnic lunch and sit and enjoy your surroundings.

If you do that and aren’t bother by the alligators or snakes, either the fire ants or the sand gnats will eat you alive.

So why do I live in this salt marsh swamp?

That one line there captured by Big Bill.

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold.

Its the end of November.

It is forecast to be in the low 80’s and we are off to the beach.

Now my favorite fall colors are the numberless shades of blue in the sky and in the water of the Atlantic Ocean.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,