Author: Susan Minarik

It was hardly bigger than my hand,
a piece of sycamore bark on the bed
of fallen pine needles, just a bit of litter
strewn on the path. But it drew me
to look closer and I bent down to hear
its story, and there were many of them,
about unexpected animals and birds
the tree whose bark this was had known.
All this, on a mere scrap of pastel bark
waiting to be noticed, on this path
in the woods.

I think of the winter woods as a gallery
that features the art of its trees. On my desk
an index card is inked with words, hand-printed,
to remind me what to notice when I visit there:
lines form textures colors rhythm patterns motion.
They silently sing link a mantra as I wander
through the gallery’s arched wooden halls.

Today, a mild and damp mid-February day,
shrouded in mist, I felt called to visit.
As I walked on the leaf-strewn ground,
packed hard now by the winter, my eyes
focused on the details: the fallen needles
and cones strewn on an oak leaf carpet,
the barks of the trees, the depth of color
in the misty light, the images that the curves
evoked. I was quite intent on these,
yet fully aware of the thickness of the air
and the way it seemed to wrap everything,
including me, in dream-like mystery.

I drifted along in this mesmerized state
for some time before I turned toward home.
And that’s when I saw the shaggy horned
creature emerging from the mist, a giant
of a beast. We stared at each other,
assessing the situation. Then I bowed
in acknowledgment of it and greeting, and the air
between us grew clear and we became for each other
an old woman, hiking with a camera,
and the muddied roots of an old, fallen tree.

Here’s to all the lovers, who count
not the flaws, but see to the depths
of the heart of the beloved,
who treasure a glance, a wink,
a smile as the key to life’s meaning,
who give to the beloved as easily
as they breathe, who feel in each touch
of the lover’s hand a new sunrise,
who weather the days when love’s light wanes,
believing in its inevitable return.

Here’s to those who find love
on the street, in the face
of a child, in the kindness
of a stranger, who see love
in the eyes of the aged
and dying, who behold its light
in neighbors, in pets, in flowers
and trees, in roaring oceans
and starry skies, who celebrate
how it’s love that holds the world together.

Here’s to those wrapped
in the illusion of loneliness,
who believe they have missed
love’s smile, to those whose pain
or fear hides love’s presence,
whose wounded hearts wait
for love’s kiss. It will come,
dear ones; it will come.
It envelopes and upholds you now.

Here’s to the song of the universe,
that rises from Love’s heart,
that carries its tender strength
to each particle of being,
to every star, to every world,
endlessly and forever singing
Yes. Yes. Yes.

Yesterday I saw geese in the sky, great V’s of them
heading north, mighty wings pushing their thick bodies
through the air, their boisterous honking calling me
to note their flight. Today I found them skating
on skim ice at the pond, silent, but playful,
still moving as if they were cells of a single body,
turning together, heading in a common direction,
connected by some innate sense of relatedness,
understanding harmony down to their bones.

As much as I admire the kind
of curiosity that wonders why
the skin of the pine differs so
from that of the birch, and what
it can tell us about its history
and evolution, and those minds,
too, that want to know what names
have been given to each species
and to the kingdoms to which
each belongs, it is my lot, it seems,
simply to see the way, say,
tiny seeds nestle here, just so,
amidst these wondrous slabs
of clay-red bark.

Such a ripping of the air!
Such a cacophony of sound!
All at once, from nowhere,
a flock of geese splashes down.
The waters leap up to meet
webbed feet. Wings flap
and fold. And before you can
even catch your startled breath,
they’re settled, and silent,
floating as if they’d been floating
for hours, as if their grand entrance
hadn’t awakened the entire woods.

In their corner, under the cool glow of their lights,
my little houseplants keep sprouting their leaves
and making seeds, as if they didn’t know
that the light was artificial. But I suspect they do.

They seem quieter somehow in their winter home
than when they’re basking on the summer sills,
their joy turned inward now, their songs reduced
to murmurs as they share their dreams.

“Soon,” I whisper to them as I water their soil,
“soon. The breezes will come, the birds return
to sing their morning songs, and the rain
will perfume the air. Until then, my dears,
we wait.“

If you aren’t paying attention to such things
you may not have noticed the mist of faint pink
at the tips of the maples’ twigs. It’s subtle,
this waking. Maples, after all, have deep dreams.
They don’t burst from their sleep all at once.
They simply stretch a bit as the first sap rises
and take on a rosy glow at the taste of it.
(May the glow summon robins!)
This is the start of it, you know – spring,
this time of the waking of the maples.

I saw it all at once, looking down
from the little walking bridge, the whole progression:
Boulder, rock, stone, sand. The whole story
told in this one, small space.
It takes eons. The grinding with nothing
more than friction, much like the bow
on the strings of a cello, but made
of water and wind. Why not?
If you have endless time, why not?