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Sunday, April 26, 2015

Blue Sky and Cherry Trees

Let me tell you of an early spring day when the sky was high and blue and the sun was shining. Two dozen gulls had come north from the lake and were wheeling high overhead, calling to me to Look! Look! So I watched them circle and wheel and ride the thermals in joy (they certainly weren't checking out the fishing, given that they were 1) too high and 2) over land, not water). As they soared and dived and twisted with their wings outstretched, the sun glinted from them and they made silvery, gull-shaped rents in the blue sky, as if allowing us to see the silver backdrop hidden behind the blue. I hadn't known, until the day the gulls called me to look, that our blue sky really does have a silver lining.


High Park's cherry trees are the city's delight. The radio and newspapers trumpet the phenomenon with the result that half the city is making the pilgrimage to the park, walking south down the path on the west side of the park to the point where the cherry tree lane veers off to the southwest. The cherry trees are a diaphanous vision of palest pink, the blossoms so plentiful that the entire hill is light, airy, ethereal. Our 6 a.m. walks have not been affected by the crowds except for one morning when we encountered four separate photographers setting up their tripods. It made us feel a little guilty as we strode down the hill, forcing them to delay their shots until we were safely beyond the frame.


The blossoms are lasting well because of the lack of rain. Nonetheless, the last time I passed by them, the cherry trees were a smudged green/pink as the leaves began to force out the blossoms, which floated down to the asphalt path and created around each tree huge petalled circles of palest pink dots smaller than a dime. The feet that trod up and down that asphalt lane gradually scuffed the petals to the side of the path, building up long piles of pink on either side. Walking through the cherry trees at the end of their week of glory is like being the bride whose favourite niece is strewing the aisle with petals piled in her satin-trimmed basket.



Copyright © 2015 Ann Tudor

Sunday, April 19, 2015

One Thought

Multiply your guises by your moods

to see the sum of yourself,

as multifaceted as the view

from the business end of a kaleidoscope.

Rejoice! Rejoice in the richness of creation.

Like snowflakes we are all different,

despite being formed from the same source.

And here we see the mystery.

Do not believe anyone

who says she has the key

to the mystery.

Even me.


The left hand slows.

It continues to move (oh, good little hand)

but slowly, no longer flowing.

The idea has come and gone.

Once it expressed itself

there's nothing left but these brief marks

of pen and ink;

the thought has spoken but is too succinct.


Open up, my heart.

Banish the locks that check expression.

The heart's so empty

now that its one thought has hit the page.


Copyright © 2015 Ann Tudor

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Nonsense and Silence

Chitter, chatter, what's the matter?

Suzie's lamb is on the platter.

That was why they made him fatter.

Let go now of all this patter.

Keep your thoughts in line, no scattered

lines of mind a-racing.


Oh, how silly.

I'm going to stop talking now.

What you will hear is the silence of my voice.

What you will not hear (be grateful)

is the roaring wind of my interior voice,

which never stops (never say never);

it is my constant companion,

commenting on all that I see and do,

all that I am.


No, wait.

If that interior voice sees all and hears all,

does that mean it is God?

Have I hit on something here?

Will this idea take me anyplace

but straight to the loony bin?

Chitter chatter, what's the matter?

I think I just found out.



Copyright © 2015 Ann Tudor

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Old Crow

The mind is a driven bird

that rakes forest droppings

to find the necessary

for the nest.

Repository of creation and yet itself

an act of creation,

the nest is both the end product

and the reason-to-be of driven searching

for dead and dying bits of trees.

For my part I offer

brightly coloured lengths of yarn,

cut long enough to use

and short enough to carry,

for any bird making a nest

that will represent and cradle

what is coming next.


Old crone and crow together

make space for what will be,

feathering the nest

with soft sheep's gifts.

Creative nest will hold creation.



Copyright © 2015 Ann Tudor