Category: Winter Ballads

Look how the weeds lay here, bent,
leaning, and yet catching the light just so.
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 perhaps it’s a gift, waiting for an artist’s eye
to see in it a golden boat on a frothy sea.

The wind’s cold overpowered the heat of the sun,
it’s warmth having to travel 93 million miles
while the wind was right here, stiff and strong.

The stalks bent in its force, unresisting.
They learned long ago that the way to meet
a blow was to bow to its power.

Between gusts, they straightened again,
and again they bowed, as a new gust came.
They considered it a dance.

And come what may, they decided
they would dance until the music
stopped, or leveled them.

Either way, they would be proud,
knowing they had given it
their all.

Like birds, or notes on an invisible staff,
a small choir of leaves adorns the maple’s
branches. A mere glance in their direction
is enough to set their song singing
in my mind, and I recall a story
about a man who played the piano,
and his wife, who played the violin.
The two of them entertained by playing
the music they saw in any painting that
their host would present, one neither
had seen before. Now, decades later,
as this filigree of leaves and twigs sways
in the wintry sky, I finally understand.

It’s all a matter of perspective.
Which way is up, which down.
What’s in focus, what’s not.
This slant or that. Which view
is true, which distorted.
Who decides who decides,
and by what measure.
The raindrops fall, their dreams
of the world melting into a stream
that feeds the roots of trees, who,
no doubt, have dreams of their own.

I step into the woods knowing only that its lessons wait,
hidden in plain sight for me to see. Whether I will or not
depends, I have learned, on how willing I am
to surrender my preconceived notions and dreams,
to be open and willing to receive what’s before me,
naming nothing, judging nothing, wanting nothing
but to follow the gladness spilling from my heart.

Except for the strength of it,
I suppose you could call it an impulse,
this sudden sense that I must go now
and walk among trees. Given the gloom
of the day and the late afternoon hour,
this tug surprised me. But here I was,
pulling on my boots, grabbing my gloves,
detecting a sense of purpose, a need to waste
no time. Then I am plowing through
a carpet of oak leaves, transfixed
by the way the light shimmers through
the cold, barely visible mist,
intensifying somehow the textures
of the skins of the trees, of the earth
and the ice-glazed lake, how it amplifies
their winter hues. This was my wordless
lesson, this offering of beauty, a gift of love
to celebrate this new year’s very first day.

Look how they stand, these two,
strong and holding their limbs high
as if in grateful praise, and this despite
fate’s assaults, despite the storms
they weathered so patiently, so sure.
See how they face the light, and how,
beside them, their companions dance
and raise their boughs in song.
Perhaps they know this day marks
a wondrous turning into some newborn
unknown. And look how strong
and glad they stand to greet it!

Of course you can’t walk among trees
and not look up. To miss those great limbs
with their thin twigs tracing calligraphy
against the sky would be a sin. And
besides, sometimes, the sight of their crowns
is enough to take your breath away.

I confess. In summer I give them
little more than a passing glance,
maybe a little smile or a touch
now and then. But winter has come,
and they call me, the skins of these trees.
Now I stare in awe at their colors,
at the textures and layers and designs,
each unique, each similar to the others
in its family. I could learn all their names.
But now I want nothing more than to see,
to get lost in the wonder, to find myself
moist-eyed as I drink in this song.

To see this familiar place with fresh eyes
was a gift. I felt as if I had never walked
these grounds before and now how beautiful
it all was at high noon on a winter day
with a cloud-veiled sun in the sky.
And how its quiet sang!

What called me was the long swath
of dried goldenrod, looking like a troop
of old men telling tales amongst themselves
as they kept watch over this sacred land.
I remember seeing them here in their youth,
all green seed and golden flowers.
How tall they still stand now, how glorious
the way the light touches their crowns.