The Trees Speak

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Those who can hear the trees speak have never

had a thought of loneliness. What they know

is joy, and something of grief.

Trees tell amazing stories. Stories told by

generations of trees. They pass them along.

Wherever it is you stand now, there is a tree

that knows the story of that place.

How do I know these things?

I’m crazy enough to ask. That’s all that

this delightful world requires of us:

to be crazy enough.

(c) 2016-2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Conversations with Mary"

To be published by Talking Waters Press 

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The Blue Iris

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

But, what if it is the blue iris?

What if that is all we need to speak

to God, or the gods, or some other

form of the sacred?

I try to pay attention. I piece words together.

This is prayer, yes. But, more so, it is ceremony.

I want to hear another voice. I want a reply.

I want to know that I’m not alone and that

all of this matters.

May I put it in a vase?  May I decorate my home

with it? It is beautiful.

Could I be worthy of something

that I love?

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"

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My Mother Was

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

My mother was the purple iris,

sometimes a peony, but never

the carnation. My mother was

red lipstick and a big, bright smile

that sometimes lied about how

much she loved her life. She counted

her burdens and could recite them

with ease, but she said that you

could make things better with a bag

of peanut M&Ms. Green ones, especially.

You don’t forget, not all of it.

But when you bury someone

in a blue ceramic jar

near the old boxwoods

and walk away,

things start to become

hard to remember.

I don’t know the meaning of life.

But, maybe, it is simply to take notice.

© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Conversations with Mary"

To be published by Talking Waters Press

Feel free to share