Silver Diamond Sheen

The sun is painting
a white-hot
silver diamond sheen
tilt-shift, scan-waving
over shades of green
bright light
passing
through netting, under-leaf
We watch the starfield
stretch and breathe

A tree canopy
sways and leans
Two of us, minds restless
trying hard to fight ease
We lay back, and listen
find empty space to dream
Floating
on blade tip
folded, just underneath
Squirming out, between blankets, to reach
anchor, and rope down all these
lovely, impromptu scenes

No, we're never prepared
to seize, catch, or capture what's there
Our notebooks, left inside - upstairs
sheets, bound and tucked away
nestled, in wooden drawers and cabinet trays
cleaved
and held in place, recursively
Lost limbs, seeking
to absorb new memories
Remnants of life, made
and still remembered, living
Them and I, lying side-by-side
The impression of cast shade

"Hey, Dad, can I use your phone?"
I'm writing a Note, already
Observations floating down the page
"Sure, one second..."
My fingers, keeping pace
before I pass it over, gently
My mind blinks
as they flutter away

I get it
I know the feeling
That urgent need to see
Minutes later
"Can I have my phone back, please..."
The silver diamond shifts
illuminating branch and leaf
The doorway sits, mid-trunk
opening, as I sink
back, down
- time passes -
I pass it back, quietly
"Thanks Dad, I really can't wait to publish!
First, just gotta write this one thing..."

Back of the Page

We’re so eager to produce, aren’t we? Even sitting on a picnic blanket, lying next to my daughter, attempting to rest under a tree…the thoughts find me.

“The reflection from my phone screen kinda looks like a diamond, dancing, under the leaves…” there’s gotta be someone else who feels this way!

I feel the need to be prepared - to have notebooks and pens at the ready. So did my daughter (9). As we were lying there - maybe 30 seconds passed before we both felt this urgency to scribble and scrawl our thoughts and stories. But, we didn’t bring our notebooks, so instead, we passed my phone back and forth as inspiration did its thing.

What must this look like to a tree? The mad compulsions of two somewhat-evolved monkeys, turning a stick over in their hand, looking for new angles or ways to use it: “maybe it will do something different if we hold it this way, no this way. Give it back!” Do trees sigh?

Maybe this poem was a new angle, or maybe, I could have turned off my phone, and watched the silver diamond sheen dance, under leaf, for a few more minutes, alone with them. Would the light still be there, without reflecting off my screen?

Maybe we both had stories we needed to get down on “paper” under that starfield of leaves. Maybe someday we’ll be out from under this shadow, this urgent need…although, after watching the pattern play out in the little person right next to me: A Writer. I’m noticing the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Happy naturing, however that looks to you and your family.

🌞🌳🤳🏼