Autumn Budding

 

Pale green against the twigs
and fading summer leaves, 
they hang as an enigma,
as a deposit on what will emerge
months from now,
on the other side of winter.

Young catkins protecting tiny
grains of ripening pollen
growing deep within,
holding on by strength of stem 
and will,
soon buffeted by cold and 
winter's worst, withered
grueling days of getting by
while the darkling world is frozen.

And what of us? 
Like catkins,
battered by grief and confusion,
we deepen into the fruit of
what we are becoming.
Like a pregnant mama's experience of
awkward bodily disruptions,
punctuated by exhaustion,
discomfort, uncertainty...
uncomfortable growth
that supports the newness she will bear.
We will bear.

Next summer, there will be hazelnuts.

The Autumn Garden (or Why I Plant)

We are in the thick of the autumn migration now. Warblers, flycatchers, other insect eating birds, raptors, hummingbirds, dragonflies, Monarchs are all making their way hundreds or even thousands of miles south to warmth and food as our northern regions freeze over, even as our native bee species continue feeding and reproducing while there is still time.

They come through, and sometimes pause, in our yard, finding an abundance of nectar and pollen, seeds, berries and insects and shelter to fuel them for the next leg of their journey.

This, above all other reasons, is why I plant. The hedgerow and gardens that surround our house I plant for beauty, of course, but even more, for a short while, to be a part of the lives of these small, courageous, holy creatures that fleetingly share my space.

Through these pictures, I invite you to share in it too.

 

 

The Voice of God

Until this morning, I have never equated
the overly-enthusiastic crowing of our neighbor's rooster,
who lives just beyond our bedroom window,
with the voice of God. 
Heard from a distance, he might sound charming,
quaint, nostalgic even, like some far-off
church bell calling the faithful to meeting.

Up close, he is loud. And insistent.
And, after living near him for so long, 
I can recognize his voice among the throng
of other roosters in the area.
Until this morning, I have never equated
his raucous, before-the-dawn, persistent,
rooster song with a call to Morning Prayer.
Nor, as he mysteriously begins again
a couple of hours before dusk, 
as an invitation to Compline. 

In the spring, his calling drowns out
the early morning birdsong I strain to hear
and, as the late-summer's soft droning
of crickets and katydids fills the background,
his crowing dominates the airways.
Morning in and evening out, in all seasons
and through all sorts of weather,
his voice opens and closes each and every day.
And, just as reliably, as I journey through each of these days,
he often interrupts the flow of my thoughts with
with his vigorous, punctuated reminders of his presence,
assuring me, sometimes inconveniently,
that whether he is vocalizing or not, 
he is always there,
always present,
unseen, perhaps, but
always hovering in the background. 

I have never thought of the rooster's crowing
as the voice of God.
Now I know better.