This Moment

Hello Friends,

   After writing on Blogger since 2007,  I began posting to Substack some months ago, while still posting here. But this will be my last post on this blog, as I have been paying a monthly fee to the company that sends out the emails each time a new post appears and there is no need for that on Substack.  This blog as it is as of this post will remain for a while but all the posts I have ever made are also on my Substack, as well.

  If you still like what you read here, I hope you will join my Earthy Blessings posts at that Substack address.  https://annbodling.substack.com  There is no cost to subscribe. 

Thank you for reading all these years.

   Gratefully,
        Ann

 

Today it is too easy
to take the cardinals’
February chorus
for granted
when
only a few days
ago I stopped
in wonder
at their
first notes

My mind rushes
ahead
looks forward
to the first
phoebe’s song
when
all along
the cardinals bid me
“Stay with us
stay here
stay now.”

                            Image from the late Bob Moul's Pbase gallery

Vegetable Soup

Who grew the makings?

Whose hands planted the seeds
carrots and peas in the cool spring
sweet corn and green beans when temperatures rose?

Who set out the young tomato plants
and celery and the onion starts
who weeded and watched them grow?

Who stripped ripened corn from the stalks
and fattened peas from the vines
who gathered the plump tomatoes
and bent low over the bean plants at harvest time?

What are their names?

For this bowl of warm goodness
who do I thank?

First of the Year

The cardinal's spring whistle 
echoes at dawn
across snow crusted fields
laced with heart shaped hoof prints

Bright eyed titmice flit
through cold stiffened branches
their two-note descant
disputing winter's reign

A scurrying grey squirrel
disappears into the hollow mulberry tree
mouth full of leaves
to cushion its nest

The light is changing
Winter does not last
forever 

Cradling Sorrow

 

Renee
Alex 
Liam
all the taken unamed I don't know
and those who love them
ICE and ice spread across the land

the frozen deer at the side of the road
grackle hoards gobbling all the seed
goats struggling against sickness
bitter winds sapping strength

At dawn
the sun still rises

January Omen

 

The red-wings are back
whirling community
of black songsters
wheeling as one
intent on their purpose
moment of promise
in this bleak
midwinter

On Why I Don't Celebrate

The first day of the year
means nothing
to juncos
foraging among
winter-bleached asters
in the old field
or the white-throats
who rummage through
the garden floor's
dry leaves
for fallen seeds

Grey squirrels 
gleaning black walnuts
hidden last autumn
and the red fox
hunting voles
in the east meadow
do not mark 
the day

Why should they
when every 
new morning
is a gift?

Holy Heralds

 

Holy Heralds

they are
no 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
grayness
with their glad
tidings

The goats’ quiet
nickers
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.