The Willamette River, which is a tributary to the Columbia River, is one of the many rivers we enjoy here in Oregon. This time of year is spectacular with the leaves now beginning to change.

Beloved tree, alone
in your dignified repose,
you tower in the distance with
graceful persistence. Patient through
rain or sun still standing when the day is done
beneath natal stars that bloom like springtime flowers
or loitering gloom that winter brings and summer eves when
sparrows sing. Deeply rooted, older, bolder, veins burn within
the blood of the seasons and rings bear age yet unresigned while
holding the robin’s nest cradled in your limbs. Whispering breeze,
you quiver to tell your woe and when air throbs with wings, you shed
your tears in leaves that so lavishly dost pour. My humbling tyrant,
lifting your arms high, you filter amber sunshine through your
branches while an eagle gives you respectful downward
winks from the heaven above. Upon the soil of truth
and right, your deep foundations lay. Sentry,
here your duties lie wherein you
live and quietly die. To the
earth, you give your
roots. To the sky,
your air. To
me, shelter
whether my
heart is
with hope
or sorrow
tremble.
I, who
in your
shadow
sit as
twilight
nears, I
listen to
thee. You are
the sovereign and
I the apostle. Please
carve your name upon me.

© Roxi St. Clair

It is the 3am in the arms of a lover,
and the pause before the kiss.
It is the sun swallowed by the ocean,
and the moon rising in solitude.
It is the thought before the prayer,
and the canvas before the paint.
It is twilight falling upon gravestones,
and the clock that ran out of time.
It is the butterfly that lost its wings,
and the rainbow that pierces the sky.
It is the star before turning to dust,
and tears that are wept in sleep.
It is the feather that falls to the ground,
and the lamb after the slaughter.
It is the sound of a snowflake melting,
and the taste before the swallow.

These are just a few of the things I hear.

© Roxi St. Clair

In the several years that I’ve visited Seaside Oregon, these guys and their dogs have always been parked at the same location playing guitar and rolling their joints. They’re very friendly and I enjoy talking to them during my visits. Their dogs always seem healthy and well-fed and enjoy the occasional belly rubs from visitors! The last time I went, I brought them some cheeseburgers to share with their dogs and dropped some pocket money into their jar in exchange for taking these photos of them (with their permission of course.) Blessed be to all who travel on this journey called life.

We stand on the edge
as the tides of life
direct us on this
journey…
this place
and time
waiting
for something new
to begin
and something old
to cease
and the things
that shall be –
will be.

We stand on the edge
reaching out
to grasp
waiting
for that feeling
one so near…
yet far
we hope to touch
just one
other soul…
encountered
or not –
we hope.

We stand on the edge
wondering who we are
waiting
for that knowing
what it is,
was,
and will be…
our purpose
dearly sought
while our lives
drift ahead
for we are
merely shadows
of one another
as we stand.

© Roxi St. Clair