Solace

 

How can so much noise feel like silence?

Not the noise of tractor trailers in the distance

or the pickup trucks speeding up and down our road

or the beeping backhoes at the neighbor's construction site, 

but the juncos' trilling 
and the white-throats' sweet whistle.

Even the guttural songs of the blackbirds in the hayfield
and the red-bellieds on the old stump,
the pileateds' one-note call
and the blue jays' raucous percussion
play their part in the vernal ensemble.

No longer the bare tangle of winter,
the hedgerow is dressed in lace, 
every twig sprouting miniature leaves.

The serviceberries stand as sentries,
white blossoms floating against the sky
and the raspberries' green foliage a foil
for the blackhaw's russet hue.

Cardinals forage for withered berries
and the brown thrasher chortles atop the hornbeam,
pausing only long enough to dodge the mockingbird
who patrols the hedgerow as his own.

I am weary this morning,
weary of words, weary of worry.
The human world intrudes with its sorrow and its fear.
and sometimes I forget its goodness.
But I smile at the song sparrow hopping across the grass
as though he has springs in his feet.
I study the bluebirds feeding young ones in the hanging gourd
and the Carolina wrens gathering nesting material.

In their company I can rest into this moment
and human woes recede.
This refuge has become my refuge,
a microcosm of the world as I wish it were.
Any day now the ruby-throats
will arrive.

Persistence

The great-horned owlet,
first younster of the year,
made him or herself known
last night,
strident begging calls floating
across our field
in the darkness.

In the cold March rain,

the bluebird pair chose today
to begin nest building,
carrying soggy mouthfuls of last year's grass
to the hanging gourd in the hedgerow,

driven by an internal clock
towards procreation.

Chickadees frequent the feeder in pairs,
and Carolina wrens chortle exuberant duets.
Blue jays pass seeds, mate to mate,
and red-shouldered hawks circle each other in flight,
like an aerial hug.

Soon, all will be on eggs
and the season of new life
will begin.
And when these babies have grown up
and gone their own way,
on into the fall the owlet
will be begging.

I credit the patience
of owls.
It takes a long time to raise
a raptor.

Winter Slumber

 This post is a revision of an earlier poem and is in honor of the 8 inches of snow we received yesterday.

Tread softly on the sleeping ground
where roots and rhizomes
grow in secret
unimpaired 
beneath the snow
and corms and pupae
snuggly rest
and wait 
until 
the appointed time
to wake
and stretch
upward
through softening soil
towards
the light.

Attend gently to sleeping dreams
where hopes and wishes
grow in secret
unimpaired
beneath awareness
and inspiration
safely rests
and waits
until the appointed 
time
to wake
and stretch
unbound
through softening resistance
towards
the light.

Offering

 

There's a cat in my lap on a cold and cloudy morning
and tea from a place I have never been,

wooden chairs, wooden floors, wooden tables 
from trees I had no hand in planting,

water from the earth pumped by a well
I did not install, 

apples I did not grow in a bowl I did not turn,
milk and cheese from cows I did not raise,

hay I did not bale 
in the barn I did not build,

birds' winter songs I did not write,
snowy tracks left by foxes I have never met.

All is gift.
Gratitude my offering back.

January Juncos

 

     

    like   
      notes
            without
              a
        staff
            on a
                  score  
                         of
                            snow *

* Thanks to Kurt for the idea!

              

              

                     

Foggy Unknown

The year dawned
grey and gloomy,
fields obscured by fog
swathing us
in mist, 
the perfect metaphor
for what lies ahead,
unknown.

The hedgerow stands
bleak, forlorn,
dried stalks and branches
shrouding
feathered ones
who have come to glean
from seedheads and berries,
nourishment for now,
and tomorrow.

In wild abandon
their songs pierce
the doldrums and lift
our spirits,
Carolina wrens,
harbingers of wonder
in this drab moment,
and beyond.

Holy Heralds

Holy Heralds

they are,
not angels proclaiming
on this Christmas dawn,
but sleepy rustlings
and voices 
from fields
and barn.

White-throats and cardinals,
softly chipping  
in the meadow
at first light,
hallow
the cold and cloudy
greyness
with their glad
tidings

The goats' quiet
nickering
greet the only shepherd
present
in the stable
this morning,
tending her flock in the darkness,
and humming hymns
of the One
newly born. 

Awaken!
The Holy has come,
Christmas
slipping in
through the
sacred ordinary 
of this
day of days,
once again.