Category: Bottles of Hours

Oh, sky, who drenched us in sunlight
for nearly a week of days, whose stars
glittered at night in your velvet deep,
we thank you. And we watch in thanks
as you pull in your soft clouds now
to let your nectar fall on all the hidden flowers
who grow beneath Earth’s soil, dreaming,
as do we, of the coming spring.

If you know how to listen to trees, you can tell. They might look as if they’re just standing there, not a thought passing between them. But that’s not true.

They’re thinking all right. One thought. Every one of them: “Are they here yet? Have you seen one? Have you heard one sing?”

The tension of their anticipation fills the air. Any day now, any moment, it will happen. Suddenly they will telegraph to each other, “Yes! They’re here! They’re here!”

And even if it snows again, no one will care. When the robins come, spring can’t be far behind.

The woods atop the south hill look bleached in the early morning light. The ground, powdered with snow, is littered with fallen trunks and limbs. Some seasons are hard.

Nevertheless, the atmosphere shimmers with the freshness of a new day, just emerging from the night and brimming with countless possibilities. Beneath the snow, the earth hides quickening seeds.

I slowly work my way to the hill’s crest, pausing to listen to the silence, to watch a small bird flutter among the trees’ subtly budding twigs. Beneath my boots damp leaves press into the earth.

The snow sparkles on the logs and branches like a blessing as I step so carefully between them. I count it a privilege to be here. This, this is sacred ground.

I remember it well. It was a cold and dreary day, much like today, one of those late February days when you think winter is going to go on forever. I was driving down country roads returning home from a friend’s house when I saw them, stoically braving the snow as they pushed their square faces through its powder in search of a mouthful of grass.

I stopped beside them and rolled down my window. “Only a few more weeks,” i shouted to them through the frosty air. “The groundhog said so.”

That’s when the one nearest me turned and looked me right in the eyes. From somewhere deep inside her she summoned a deep breath and with great clouds of steam pouring from her nostrils she bellowed, clear as day, “Boooooooo!”

“My sentiments exactly,” I told her. And I rolled up my window and drove on.

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.