Enfolded in the greens of yellow birch,
of shagbark hickory and beech,
the blackhaw thicket, newly
leafed out and blooming,
stands impenetrable.
For me anyway.
The hooded warbler singing
from within
has no trouble navigating
the tangle of twigs and branches,
feasting on insects
too tiny for me
to see.
His song I know,
but he moves unseen until,
momentarily flitting
into the open,
he is revealed,
brilliant yellow and black,
going about his business
unmindful of my
presence.
The northern waterthrush is
a different story.
He too sings,
teasingly,
leading me on
in anticipation and
hope,
to the next thicket,
the next turn in the path,
just out of reach
remaining invisible,
there but not
seen.
How like the realities buried
within me.
The unease disguised
as anger,
too frightening to face
head-on.
It hides and weaves
through the recesses
of my consciousness
until, finally,
following its movements,
I recognize the fear
that has given itself away.
And with that recognition,
acceptance.
The thickets have taught me
how to wait,
how to hold the
seen and the unseen,
how to hold what is
known and unknown,
and the freedom to dare to
haltingly,
trustingly,
hold them both.
Thanks be to God.
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