Category: Winter Ballads

I want to dig up this patch of ground
In some magical way that would permit me
to do so without disturbing a millimeter of it.
and then to place it within a shadow box
to hang on my wall, where I would gaze at it
daily, or better yet, to package it in such a way
that I could place it in your hands, where
you could breathe its perfumes and truly see
the depth of its livingness and be filled, as I am,
with transcendent wonder that such a thing
could be, that it could lie in total obscurity
deep in a woods to sing its song only for
the crows and deer and pines and be
content with that, gloriously.

The afternoon is overcast with clouds
that filter the light, turning it pearly.
And it’s warm – well above freezing
at last – and the wetlands call me.
Frankly, it looks dreary. Dull browns
and grays. “Color and form, Susan,”
some inner mentor reminds me.
These are gifts, these winter lessons.
I toss my judgments into the sky,
empty my pockets of labels, feel
the wind, hear it in the branches
and brush and reeds. Only the wind
and nothing more, and it is moist
and cold and wonderful. A light gleams
from the edge of the woods and I step
toward it and see it is a low spot with
ice lingering on the blanket of leaves.
So here it is, found, of course, exactly
when it was least expected, exactly
where, and exactly what I wanted
and needed and hadn’t even asked for.

What if today, I wondered, were the last day?
What if the great Here of the planet itself
ceased to be, and all that remained of it
was what remained in the memories
of those who had dwelt in its embrace?

Would I take with me fields of goldenrod
and daisies? A child’s face? Spruce boughs
seen through a window etched with winter frost?
Would I take the a loved one’s touch?
The wind? The stars? The sound of a choir?
Or of laughter? Or a guitar?

What would be etched in the book
of my mind—what beauty, what love,
what truth—if today were the very last day?

It’s one of those things you take for granted,
fail to see, having shared space with it so long
that you think of it no more often than you think,
say, of the nail on the little toe on your left foot.
It’s like the geranium I mentioned earlier,
blooming its heart out over there on the hearth.
Yet here it is, a mind-boggling absolute miracle,
this green grace of branches that dances
outside the north windows day after day.
How we flatter ourselves to think we are aware,
hey?

After endless days of low gray clouds,
the sun emerged, and the world’s colors
sang like the flute of some Piped Piper.
I could do nothing but follow its song
as it led me down winding country roads
lined with bright snow, brought by the clouds
I had endured, and now thanked. It’s a mistake
to take weather personally, you know.
But if you must, see it as a teacher, a mirror,
an invitation, a gift. The Piper’s song, for instance,
carried me to this creek, so still, so silent
between its snow-dusted banks, so clearly
reflecting the trees that leaned as if to see
what was coming from upstream. I watched
blue shadows roll down the hill, their color
turning to sky as they slid across the waters
and saw how the brush and grasses were gold
in the afternoon’s low sun and how the snow
shimmered in its light. I left the Piper there
to sing its way down the creek. I got what
I came for. I understood.

What to take with you: All the good things,
all the things that coaxed you to open to love.
Even the ones that hurt; maybe especially those.
But pain is everywhere; what you’re looking for now
are the gems. The times, for instance, colored by
laughter, contentment, satisfaction, gratitude, joy.
The moments when you felt open and joyous and free.
The times you were engulfed in an ocean of compassion,
for everyone, everywhere, because life is hard.
The times you were at peace and in love with it all.
That’s what you want to keep. And what to hope for?
More of the same, please. More of the same.

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.

The sound of the creek, filled by the midwinter thaw,
enters the fisherman’s dreams. He feels himself
planted firmly in its waters, leaning into them
as they rush past his hip-high boots. He can smell
the boots. His muscles move in his sleep as he imagines
casting his line into the wind, watching it fly
through the wet air that tastes of spring and drop
into the waters, upstream. And in his dream he calls
to the trout and feels the tug on his line as one bites,
and he reels it in, oblivious now to the cold waters,
to their push against his legs. It is only him and the fish
now and this singular joy. And the joy feeds him, and he wakes
filled with it, even though spring is still weeks away.

Sonja is hunting for dog bane. She prizes
it for its fibers, and tells me never to feed it
to dogs. She keeps her eye out for plants
that might yield dyes for the wool she will spin
into soft yarns. We laugh at the burrs
that stick to our clothes. She shows me how
she felts the holes that happen when her scarf
gets snagged. She calls the patches polka dots.
The sun and blue sky disappear as we eat
sandwiches of peanut butter and raw honey.
We don’t notice. We have cocoa and raspberries
and miles to explore, and it’s close enough
to perfect for both of us right now.
As we push through the brush, the creek
sings happy January songs, and I drink
in the winter colors, feeling lucky and blessed.