Category: Winter Ballads

I hope that sometime you stop what you’re doing
and really look at a tree, knowing, once again,
that it’s alive, as much as you are, maybe more,
and knowing that, not because someone told you,
but because when you stopped to look, you saw
how gloriously it danced for the morning.

It was the red of the berries that stopped me.
Not a minute ago I was ankle deep in the snow
that draped every inch of the land.
From the edge of the lake, the world looked
as if it had been drawn in charcoal on fine paper.
Now this! A collage of leathery leaf and snow crystal,
delicate as breath, gold needles and jade
and the lacquered red berries that, as I said,
caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks.
Imagine what had to happen for this scene to be.
Soil, pine nut and acorn, and birds to carry them
to this exact spot, not to mention the years
and the rain. Everything. Everything.
And now it’s all come together in one small
work of art , a gift for those who can see.
That’s you, I imagine. And me.

If it’s going to be winter, it may as well snow.
It may as well drape the boughs with crystal
and invite the children out to play. It may as well
etch the branches of the woodlands and scatter
powdered diamonds on the ground.

If it must be cold, it may as well grace us
with love-flakes like these tumbling around us
as the grand silent song shimmers Yes.

I stop in my tracks when I see them,
my face breaking into a wide grin.
Look how proud they are, how happy,
to be adorned with garments of light
as if they were a choir of some kind
selected to sing for the king.
Aren’t they sweet? I’ve known them
since they were a third this size.
And look how they’ve grown!
Look how swiftly they’ve grown.

The earth in this forest asks you to walk softly
letting its song rise up through your feet.
Its air seeps into you and carries a scent
that clarifies your mind and expands you
until all your boundaries dissolve and
all of this—lake, trees, snow, sky—is inside
you with all of its woven, ancient stories.
Now you emerge. You! In the midst of it,
with stories of your own. And all the while,
the whole of it is inside you, singing,
revealing its unfolding joy.

I watched the snow dissolve the world’s colors.
It started with the sky, inhaling its light
it were a fuel of some kind. That alone
was enough to cast a pallor over the land,
to stop the play of its shadows. Meanwhile, the snow
turned the pines a deep gray, and everything else
to shades of charcoal and dull ashy white.
Except for the sound of a snow plow scraping
the asphalt as it descends the eastern hill,
the world is silent. The birds are hidden balls
of downy feathers, heads tucked into their wings.
The furred things are curled in their burrows.
No cars pass. No dogs bark. It’s almost as if
breath itself has ceased, as if everything,
for this one timeless moment, has paused
and is waiting for morning.

This is the part of the season I dread,
this long haul through the bleakness of it
and the cold. But an impulse strikes me
to walk in the woods, and to take with me
a willingness to be entranced. So I go,
regardless of the heavy blanket of sky.
I am but a few yards down the trail
when I find that I am, indeed, entranced,
and wandering through a living gallery
made of earth and sky, surrounded by
exquisite works at every turn, mine
for the seeing. Mine for the surrender
of my no to my yes.

I walk past you a dozen times, at least,
every day, without giving you so much
as a glance. But don’t think for a minute
that I do not feel your touch, hear your song.
And when I do pause to look at you,
directly, face to face, all I can think is
how astonishing it is to live in this world
alongside your grace. Every day.
And walk past without so much as a nod.

Some fell on rock
atop a wilted leaf
surrounded by a sweep
of fallen needles
the color of rust
in a January rain
that puddled beneath
them. Nevertheless,
they sprouted and
put forth leaves,
the world wanting
a bit more color
that deep gray day.

I walk the edge of the wetlands
taking in its wintry hues, its silence,
when a patch of grass whistles
to my eyes. Bleached ribbons
of it bow in great, looping curves
as if a troop of wee, invisible dancers
were tossing them in the air
to some joyous strain just outside
the my range of hearing, but rippling
through me just the same.