Category: Winter 23-24

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?

I had no plan to climb this ridge.
I was following a winding brook,
pale gold in the light of winter’s
afternoon sun, when the pines
caught my eye, their soft boughs
green against the faded russet
of their fellow oaks’ fallen leaves.
It’s like that sometimes.
A part of me I cannot name rises
from my center to wordlessly point
the way. I have learned to heed it.
And standing here, on a February day
in the midst of these pines, I know why.

I climb the hill, try to see if they left enough
of the patch where the coltsfoot grows
when they mowed to the slope’s edge.
They had to. It’s where they get water
to fill the pumper truck for fighting fires.
I can’t tell, but I’m betting the coltsfoot
will make a showing just a few weeks from now.
They have a mission, after all.
I smile thinking of them as I reach the top
of the bank and turn to see the cattails,
all fuzzy atop their tall, straight stems,
and the brilliant, still pond behind them,
and the thin, graceful trees. I walk
the hilltop around the reservoir’s edge,
caught by the reflection of the ivory reeds
on the dark teal water. I am alone here.
I hear the silence. No red-winged blackbirds.
No bugs. No frogs. Not even a breeze.
Just this cold, clear winter air, and the sky,
and all this!

Take the warmth that melts your heart’s ice
and send love flowing free. Send it over the banks,
past all the boundaries. Send it to all the parched places.
Let it seep into their soil and revive them.
Deny it to no one, to nothing;
love that is conditioned isn’t love at all.
Call to the sun. Ask it to release every frozen bit of you.
Let its blaze teach you fearlessness and joy.

Some days, all you can do is keep slogging through.
That’s enough, you know, and valiant in its own way.
Anyone can skip in the sunshine, revel in the colors
of a sunset, join in the drama of a good storm.

It’s the ordinary days, when the color is drained,
and all that’s left to pull you forward is duty,
days where your true measure is made.

On such days, throw kisses to the gray sky anyway.
You’re breathing, after all, and surely that in itself
is a wonder, and a cause for awe and celebration.

On the last day of clouds, or at least
that’s what they say, the last day
of this muted masterpiece, I walk
along the edge of the lake at Brady’s Run.
The air is moist and right on the edge
of freezing, so that I am wide awake
and everything is intense and clear,
the colors, the whispers of the lake’s ripples,
of their soft lapping on the shore, the sound
washing between these hills, the high wind in
the cottony clouds, the faint tapping
of the trees’ naked branches. Beyond that,
no sound. Only this symphony of the lake,
and the hills, and the light, and the trees,
On this, the last day, for now, of clouds.

Listen, I know there are explanations
for these hieroglyphs. But the how
of it is irrelevant. It’s not the origin
of Shakespeare’s pen, the source
of his ink or paper that speaks to us.
It’s the story. So much is there,
waiting to unfold for you as you listen.
I would tell you what happened for me
as I let this bit of tree art speak.
It was quite a vivid dream.
But I prefer to leave it up to you
to see for yourself, or not, as you will.
Nevertheless, look at the colors
on the wooden canvas skin
on the trunk of this old,fallen tree!

You could easily walk past, your mind
registering “tree,” as if it were nothing more
than an obstacle to be avoided. Or,
if you were walking quietly enough,
you might feel the nudge, hear
the whispered invitation: Look.
And if you did, you might be led
into a secret gallery that displays
the art of trees, and find a jeweled flower
made of wood and time and weather,
right there, in a circle of bark.
You never know.

An invisible rod of some kind
pokes me in the ribs as a voice
I haven’t heard in ages commands
Get up! Get out!
It was She who must be Obeyed.
So I tied on my leather boots,
pulled on my thick jacket, my hat,
grabbed extra batteries and the camera
and got out. I knew why she had come.
(The knowing simply appeared.)
It was time to remember that winter
brings the opportunity to see
what’s here to see, now and only now.
Put everything else aside. See.
Be here, in these woods.
My boots walk on blankets of pine.
I notice crystallized sap on the bark of the tree,
the vine, green even in winter, climbing
up its side, the whole thing complete
and perfect. Amen, I whisper.
Hallelujah, amen.

The skies here stay overcast this time of year,
sometimes for 10-12 days in a row. It’s a test.
We’re a week in now with only partial sun due
next Sunday and Monday, then full clouds
return. Just this morning, it struck me this hunger
is for color. It’s a visceral longing, deep and growling.
I pull a memory of summer gardens from my mind
and bathe in it, and it refreshes and restores me.
Turning from the dream, I find myself gazing
at the scene outside my window, saying to myself,
“Still, there is this.”