Author: Susan Minarik

Look here. Don’t just say “mud” and walk away. Look. Look closer.

See? The first blades of grass are pushing their way up into the light.

Imagine the weight of the saturated soil, the way they have to find a route past the bodies of drenched leaves, past sticks and pebbles.

All birth is a struggle. If you want to be here, you have to work for it. You have to prove your toughness, your determination.

But, oh! The greeting of the light! The touch of air and the music that rides it! The surge of freedom as you burst into the wonder of this world!

What a mystery you have entered! What a great unknown! And yet, how it calls. How every cell of your being cries, “Push on! Push on!”

It wasn’t much, as sunsets go.
Yet how eagerly my eyes flew
to the blushing pink and coral,
rare colors in this season
of brown woods and fading snow.
I held them to my heart and dreamed
of summer roses draped in tender hues.

Only after I had drunk my fill did I notice
the tracks in the snow on the hill
an X and an O, made by someone at play
and left as a kiss and hug because snow, too,
is loved in someone’s heart.

These I count among my treasures, these jeweled wings
gathered from the pathways and grasses I walked on summer days.
I keep them in the back corner of a drawer of the old dresser
in the spare room, tucked between other precious prizes–
the carved ivory animals, the silk and bamboo fans,
my first son’s first shoe, the card that announced his birth.

It’s good, I’ve found, to keep a few mementos,
tangible tokens of your journey through this world,
of the hours you spent, the places you’ve seen,
the company you kept, and of gifts that fell like love notes
floating from the heavens on their tender jeweled wings.

Until you watch the ice along the creek’s edge, the waters look still,
their smooth surface wearing a poker face that masks their speed.

But the ice gives them away. It sails downstream
like leaves riding a great wind toward an inevitable end,
toward the final merging with that from which it came.

Winter passes. Spring whispers in its wake.

From High on Happiness, February 2016

I promised you that when the snow was deep
and I had begun to believe that winter was eternity,
I would remember you. I would remember
your countless shades of green, your plush grass
buzzing with bees and clover, and the smell of it.
I would remember the warmth of your sun
and the blessing of the breeze singing through
your dancing leaves, and the sheer, inviting
welcome of your being.

And now that day has come, the one where I began
to believe that winter would go on forever.
I confess that I didn’t choose to remember;
the memory of you came to me on its own,
drifting across the cold, gently emerging
with a touch of kindness that I could not ignore.

And so I sit here, before my fire, waiting
for the assault of another coming storm,
and I lose myself in your rolling verdant hills
until my eyes tear with gratitude
for the comfort of you, for remembering that
you are as real as the cold, and will return.

From High on Happiness, February 20, 2015

The day brings sun and shadow, wind and snow. I put seeds out for the birds who, fluffed against the cold, huddle in the branches of the little pine. “Soon,” I tell them, as if they did not know. Already, I imagine, they have scouted the area thoroughly, picked the locations for their nests.

Now it’s just a matter of waiting. The hours of daylight must grow a little longer. The air must reach a level of consistent warmth, the snow give way to rains, the earth’s neutral hues surrender to emerging greens.

I think they are more patient than me, these little winged ones. I think they do not waste their moments yearning for tomorrows that will come regardless. They are happy that the woman has brought them seeds, that the day entertains them with its dance of light and shadow.

When the thaw comes, water from the melting snow runs down the hills into the road, covering the lane nearest my property with water. Vehicles driving through it send a spray 20 feet into the air where it lands on the trees and the railroad ties that line my driveway and hold my mailbox. For days, I get to enjoy amazing ice formations from the seclusion of my house as I wait for the weather to warm a few more degrees.

Warm rain fell all day, washing away vast amounts of snow. From my studio window, I look out on what I call pinto snow, where patches of ground blanketed with rust-brown oak leaves appear, reminding me of the markings on pinto horses.

I welcome the warmth, even though its stay will be brief. Tonight the rain will turn to snow, and the patches will vanish like pinto ponies galloping over the hill. But I will remember the way they came, with warmth and hope and rain.

Outside my window low clouds cover the sky. The frozen snow along the road is smeared with mud splashed by the passing cars. The birds are napping somewhere out of sight.

But here, on a shelf, carnations spice the air, their ruffled petals, pink and white as springtime, sing to me that I am loved.