Category: Winter 23-24

Between snows, the winter floor
lays bare, a tapestry of fallen leaves,
pressed against the earth, protecting
her, dissolving into her, nourishing
her with their return. They’re soft
and giving beneath my boots,
their musky feminine fragrance
enveloping me as I walk, tasting
like that wondrous moment exactly
between death and birth.

The only tale the woods can tell is the moment’s truth.
There’s no pretense here. No fabrication.
No memory or longing.
Just the sheer isness of forest and snow:
Sunlight on tree bark, the punctuation of animal tracks
and long shadows, the call of a crow accentuating
the silence.
All of it breathing the shimmering Yes.

All at once, a breather, a moment of respite
from the cold. Temperatures that in summer
would have chilled me feel so balmy to me now
that I go hatless and leave my mittens behind.
It won’t last. February snow is no surprise.
But today the sun is shining and I remember
the taste of spring, its sounds and fragrances.
The creek wears a layer of water over its ice.
And on its banks, even the trees are dancing.

Before they even slip into
their golden-yoked shells,
before their bodies even begin
to form bones and beaks and brains,
the spirits of birds dream of flying.
That is why they come here.
They come pushed by dreams
of sky rushing through feathers,
of gliding through air, of darting
among the branches of trees.
They dream of swooping and falling
and climbing again on strong wings,
of racing with clouds and drifting
on breezes. It will take effort,
this dream. But they hold to it
until it turns true and they find
themselves soaring and free.

The days have been dark with heavy skies.
Today, for most of the day, it rained.
But as I crossed the bridge from one side
of the river to the other, I noticed
that, beyond the fog, the clouds
were parting, a new light shining through.
And how alive the world seemed,
as if it were filled with newborn joy.

For as long as the lake could remember
the air had been cold. Day or night, whether
it danced as a breeze or blew with the force
of a gale, cold was its unrelenting story.
And the lake believed it and knew itself
to be ice, stretching from shore to shore,
strong enough to hold the weight of a deer
or of a man. Then, one January day,
the rays of the sun, warm as spring,
fell on its surface, gleaming with truth.
At first, the ice resisted. “I am ice,” it said.
But the light of the sun kept burning
with love, insisting, “You are more.
You are ice, but you are more.” And the lake
began melting and rippling with joy,
and at last it knew that it was liquid
and free.

You think of her with her dazzle on,
the shimmering heaps of powdery snow
flashing in the sunlight, sparkling
beneath a full moon, the etched branches
and frosted boughs, the glittering ice.
Nothing can compare.
But most days, she shuffles through the hours
unadorned, and unless you have the wisdom
to peer past the surface, you might mistake
her for some plain Jane, too ordinary
to warrant your attention. Only those
who truly look can truly see her beauty–
or deserve to.

For one more day, the snow held, more falling
during the night and into the morning
until every branch and twig was clothed
in its powdery light.

The sight was almost too much to bear,
and you could walk in it only slowly,
mindful and silent lest you disturb
something holy,
even while your spirit
leapt and shouted with joy.

Even now I see, as I gaze at these spent asters
fallen on the new snow, their grace remains,
their delicate song echos still and enchants
so that it is suddenly late summer in my mind
and the hillside is strewn with their purple petals
as they waltz with the goldenrod in the warm air.
It was a fine dream, and I thanked them,
awed that they could hold such power, even now.

You would think that in this biting cold,
with its stark spaces and sharp air,
the world would be a hostile place.
Yet look how the azalea holds open its leaves.
Look how gently the snow lays itself down.