The Heartening Angel


The Heartening Angel


Her wings were not, at first,


On her brown clay back,

their site of attachment

forms a pink join,

a way for the angel’s heart

to bloom through.

When I’m not looking,

she rises into air,

spreads those earthy wings,

and dusts us

with blessings of imperfections.

In this way,

with her single spiral eye,

she heartens the world.

pottery sculpture by Nels Arnold
poem by Susa Silvermarie


The Heartening Angel

with thanks to her sculptor, Nels Arnold






Touching on the Wonders


What a Solstice weekend of bounty! I hiked with the Carolina Mountain Club to Twin Falls in the Pisgah National Forest, a beautiful half-day hike of 6 miles and about a thousand feet ascent.


The hike was the icing on the cake, after camping with my honey near Grandfather Mountain and lazing away a whole afternoon tubing down the New River with River Girl.

Here’s a poem that touches on the wonders:

Camping on Summer Solstice

In the morning,

sun glints gold on the lake bowl.

A great blue stretches her sinuous neck

from a black branch against white sky,

A beaver bends her head

to succulent grass

like a Zen nun.


In the afternoon,

the river

floats our bones and

rides us into timelessness.

A veery in the woods

spills its ethereal song

of wheeling descent.


In the evening,

where the soil at the shoreline

springs spongy,

sacred reishi mushrooms

offer their burnished plates

from the trunk of a dead hemlock.

And the frolicking campfire,

now satisfied embers,


into sleep.



Scent of a Single Iris


The scent of a single iris

renders me a drunken bee.

Indigo edges

scallop each white dream.

Caterpillar tongues

languid lie

on three spread petals.

Between them,

smaller petals cup and touch,

and lift a purple wonder.

On either side of the blossoming queen,

two yet bound in bud

waft promise.

I cannot bow enough!




Autumn Congruence

Autumn Congruence podcast


Even in geometry I liked it,

the fitting of figures

such a sleek thing, I wanted

to stroke the lines

of the shapes on the page.

At sixty-six, I fit myself.


From a tribal line, the figures

slide to coincide.

Ancestors dance

down through my skin

in a pageant of One, a divine parade

that makes me who I am.


My layers and lives

construct dimensions,

with nothing sticking out

to trip me up, so I can skip

and laugh across my autumn.

Congruence grants me grace.

(c) Susa Silvermarie 2013

On the mountain_1







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