Category: Winter 23-24

I was sipping my first cup of morning coffee,
watching the gentle flicker of the flames through
the wood stove’s door, gazing out the window
at the waltz of the spruce boughs and the snow.
As usual, my thoughts drifted to my loved ones,
my family, my close friends. A year ago, the soft
realization came, this one’s husband was still here,
this one’s son, this one’s long-time friend.
May peace fill the emptiness that they left behind.
I rose to take my empty cup (May they be comforted.)
to the sink, and peering through the window above it
saw, as if in a dream, a flock of mourning doves
perched on the branches of a tree and the wire,
motionless as the snow fell around them.

Imagine yourself in a land not all that far away,
beneath wondrous clouds that wear,
from time to time (depending on
their moods and the singing of the sky)
every color of the rainbow and some
that even the rainbow hasn’t yet worn.
And here, in this one special spot, almost exactly
in the very middle of nowhere, magical wands
rise from shimmering drifts of new-fallen snow
that stretch to the most distant edge of the horizon.
(You know, the edge that dreams float from at sunrise
just before they melt into the sky.) And from this
near-center of things, the wands beam waves
of warmth and encouragement and sunlight
to all the sleeping seeds who dream beneath the layers
of the earth envisioning the forms they’ll wear
when they dance in the soft winds of spring.
And if you are very quiet as you walk here,
in the snowy near-middle of nowhere, you can sense
the going forth of the wands’ beams, and you just might
feel their quickening touch whisper across
some dream seeds of your own.
You never know.

The bears, I firmly believe, have it right.
The only sensible response to this cold
is to sleep until the strawberries ripen,
or are, at least, in flower.

Until shoots of fresh green appear, or brave crocuses
push through a sweep of lingering snow,
eyelids ought to be closed and dreams
of sun-warmed meadows set free.

Now and then say a prayer for the tiny birds,
no bigger than a child’s closed hand, who brave
a cold so deep that creatures ten times larger,
a hundred times, cannot endure its chill.

Watch them dance from branch to branch,
from tree to tree, scattering their chirps
like seeds of joy, as if all life were play,
regardless of its hardships.

Maybe that’s the secret these winged ones
came to tell. All is play, made for our gladness,
even when the winds are harsh and cold
and snow falls.

Wherever you are, move back
a quarter mile, float until you’re maybe
twenty feet above the ground, higher
if you like. Notice the lighting of the scene,
the bright tones, the shadows,
the reflections. Stare at the colors,
the way they contrast and blend.
Then let yourself hear the soundtrack
of it all, the way it captures the mood
and makes the whole of it look
like the opening scene of a movie.
Imagine you’re the star. Zoom in
until you see yourself there, ready
to make your next move. What
will it be? How will it feel, with
this vast panorama surrounding you
and this music playing in the air?

Look how the weeds lay here, bent,
leaning, and yet catching the light just so.
The Yes creates such haphazard beauty,
unintended, yet inevitable, I suppose–
an expression of its nature, a variant of its song.
And look how it’s hidden, right here
in plain sight. You could walk by and think it
was no more than a tumble of weeds.
But I think it’s a gift, waiting for an artist’s eye,
or a lover’s.

Here at the beginning of the Year of Magic,
we gather with those of the same feather,
those who know the power of their dreams.
We sit in silence, facing the East, the birthplace
of all the tomorrows, building our visions,
the electric currents humming beneath
our feet, feeling the strength of fellowship
here on the wire at the start of this sacred day.
We read the shapes and colors of the clouds.
We listen to the breathing of the air and hear
the songs of nascent dreams chanting
in one another’s hearts. And when we are filled
with the knowing, we fly off, one by one,
to begin, to do the holy work, to sing the Yes,
to claim the fresh hours as our own.

The very first thought that forms
as I wake from my dreams is,
“It’s the new year.”
I pull back the drapes to an inky sky
still swathed in night, and no doubt
still recovering from the bawdy welcome
that rose as the new year was birthed.
Ten minutes later dawn creeps in,
and the air is filled with a dim pearly mist,
the world beneath it looking quite magical
and mysterious. Then ten minutes more
pass revealing through the mist
trees etched in frost, a sign, I surmise,
that the dream-seeds of the new year
truly had been scattered. And then
the light came, and the etching
of the branches wasn’t frost, but snow.
And it’s falling still, as I write these words.
Of course I snapped photos.
Of course I am smiling

Exactly at Midnight, the frost birds descend
to deliver the dream-seeds of the New Year.
They travel from afar, their wings made of songs
that sing of the limitless possibilities their gifts
hold. One goes to every being on the Earth—
to the curled, sleeping flower-forms, to all
creatures who fly or swim, who walk or crawl,
who stand rooted in the earth, or lay motionless.
There are no exclusions. Those who are taking
their first breath receive them, and those
who are taking their last. And for one glittering
moment, everything in the world feels hope.

At first, I mistook it for patience,
this deep calm surrounding me
as I stood here in the woods,
fallen leaves and branches
at my feet, a holly, tall and green,
standing before me.
But as I lingered, breathing
the cold, moist air, listening
to the silence, feeling
the life of the trees, I knew
it wasn’t patience—
for there was nothing
to endure, no expectation
of better moments
still to come. This,
this moment, was all,
whole and perfect.
This all-pervasive calm
was the whispering of grace.