Offering

Reposting this from last year in honor of my deep gratitude for the simple gifts I've been given.

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.

Identity

In summer's green they look alike.
Only the shapes differ.

But at the crowning of each short life
their true selves are revealed
before floating away
forever.

               Gold
                              Crimson
   Orange   
                                      Magenta

                    Pink
  Purple
                               Maroon

             Yellow

Who are you beneath the mask
you wear for the world?

Autumn Evening on Pine Street

 A simple poem for afterward

Sluggish crickets chirping in the meadow,
slowing cadence in the dark.

Crunching footsteps in the woodland,
doe or buck in crunchy leaves.

Soft rustling through front-yard asters,
stealthy foraging while others sleep.

Great horned owls' courtship concert
drifting across the frosted field.

Breezes sighing in bare branches,
whispers of the coming chill.

The season's evensong.
November lullaby.

If You Are Quiet

 It is time for this piece again...now, more than ever.

If you are quiet
you can hear the leaves fall,
following their twirling, 
swirling dance
with your ears
until they come to rest
softly 
at your feet.

Amid the gales
that loosen their grip,
even amidst the tumult
that rages in your mind,
if you stop,
if you will yourself to listen,
you will hear their 
floating gently-to-earth whispers
as they rustle
through their companions
on the once in a lifetime
descent. 

Background noise
fills my mind,
outer noise of destruction,
of greed,
of power wielded wrongly, 
inner voices of fear,
of sorrow,
of powerlessness,
noise that will drown me
if I let it
and render me deaf, 
even to the Good.

Yet in stillness
I may notice
that which lies beyond
myself
and all my thoughts.
Gazing at the trees of autumn,
swaying
in the winds
that strip their leaves,
Grace breaks through.

If you are quiet,
you can hear the leaves fall.
Listen...

Hearts Hungry *

Hearts Hungry

for beauty, we
savor autumn's palette
before 
it slips away.

Souls longing
for stillness, we 
huddle in silence
gazing
at the stars.

Minds dreaming
of what could be, we
raise our arms
aiming
to touch the sky.

Souls yearning 
for communion, we
lift our faces 
to welcome
the breath of God.

* Title is inspired by words in Glenn Mitchell's Substack,  PrayerNotes from the Homestead.

Marking Time

 

The kinglets have come, 
ruby-throats are leaving,
and today I heard the sapsucker's
whine.

Gold plated pawpaws,
crimson painted sassafras,
and frost asters blanket the fields
in lace.

Red-tails circle above,
drab yellow-throats forage in the garden,
and days, like black walnut leaves, float gently
away.

Companioning

 When the day dawns dreary
and your strength falters,
may you be opened to the life around you,
the bees' gentle buzzing
and the hummingbird's zest.

When the night has been too long,
filled with sorrow or fear,
may the morning dew greet you
and the rising mists 
lift your spirit.

When your moments are lonely
and far too quiet,
may you be comforted by the insects' song
and the twittering of young birds, learning
their own voice.

When your eyes are weary from too much work
or too many tears,
may autumn's hues soothe you,
bronze mums on the doorstep,
September's first crimson leaves.

When all is not as you had dreamed
nor hoped,
may the companions outside your door
carry you tenderly as you find
your way.

Bounty

In offering this poem, I am aware that many parts of the country are not experiencing the bounty of the late summer season for reasons of flood and drought and fire. My heart is with you in lament.

 Blessed be the crickets and katydids
    whose voices are a choir.

Blessed be the cicadas,
    their song the sound of summer.

Blessed be the bluebird fledglings,
    making their way in the world. 

Blessed be the groundhogs,
    fattening on windfalls before winter's long sleep.

Blessed be the bumblebees
   slipping through the lips of turtlehead blossoms.

Blessed be the goldfinches
   gleaning seeds from coneflowers and Susans.

Blessed be the ruby-throats
    feeding and fighting on their way south.

Blessed be the mistflower
    offering nectar to swallowtails and skippers.

Blessed be the winterberry
    providing for hungry birds.

Blessed be this late summer stillness,
    slack tide between the seasons.

Blessed are we
    who open to the bounty that surrounds us.

        

        

August's Blessing

 

When you are lonely,
may the garden's community enfold you.

When you are hungry,
may you know the provision of the hedgerow.

When you are thirsty,
may the long-awaited rains fall upon you.

When you are weary,
may the cool breeze's kiss be upon your cheek.

When you are apathetic,
may you know the Carolina wren's unflagging curiosity.

When you are anxious,
may the placidity of the wood turtle sustain you.

When you doubt yourself,
may the ruby-throat's tenacity inspire you.

When you are in darkness,
may the night-song of the katydid keep you company.

When you are dry,
may the dews of early morning refresh you.

When you are restless,
may you know the sweet apple's slow ripening.

When you grieve,
may you be held in companionship with the wild ones.

When you cannot find your voice,
may the constancy of the cricket's cadence grow within you.

When you have forgotten who you are,
may the Presence within all of life
bring you home to your own true self.

Iona Prayer

 

O God of ageless sea and sky,
of mountain crags
and hidden bogs
where steps are treacherous,
accompany us
in swirling winds
and the skylark's song.

O God of dunes and shifting sands
of wandering cattle 
and grazing sheep
who roam the shoreline,
accompany us
in salty fog 
and the swallow's flight.

O God of Columba
and ancient faith 
of those who followed,
where high crosses beckon
accompany us
amid remains
of what once was here.

Bless us, O God of then and now,
of old and new.
When the gulf seems wide
accompany us
in longings for the Mystery
that is You.

June's Promise

 

Stepping out my door on a June morning,
the pots overflowing with snapdragons and petunias
welcome me,

and I look to the gardens beyond.

All this was worth it, I think.
All the work of the last four years,
digging, planting,
replanting, weeding,
moving plants around until they were happy.
All the physical and mental work
of making a garden was worth it.

Like the stream that meanders through a pasture,
I wander the garden paths,

catching the peony's scent 
and the breeze's whisper on my cheek.
Beardtongue sways with the bumblebees
and honey bees feed
in the comfrey and the catmint.
Beebalm stands at attention, a landing pad for fireflies
and the sweetspire and arrowwood are in bloom,
taking their turns in the garden's long offering
of provision.

Catbirds nest in the hazelnut,
chattering all the while.
House wrens chortle in the blackhaw
and titmice and Carolina wrens belt out
dueling variations on the same tune.
Barn and tree swallows twitter overhead
and ruby-throats zip from columbine to coral bells.
Green frogs glunk in the pond 
while baby bunnies sit still as statues in the grass.

I did not create this garden.
I set the plants in the ground
and they took it from there.
Plants are promiscuous beings, 
spreading their progeny where they will.
Creatures are the the recipients 
of this generous smorgasbord.
It was planted with them in mind.

Summer Guests

Barn swallows fly warily
into the old barn
wings fluttering,
voices twittering,
searching for a safe space
to place their nest.

A beam over the goat pen
will do.

Day by day
carrying mud and grass
they shape a perfect cup
to hold their young.

Tree swallows zip boldly
above the meadow
chattering,
hawking insects,
searching for a cavity
to build their nest.

The hanging gourd behind the barn
will do.

Day by day

carrying fine field grass
and feathers
they craft a downy bowl
to raise their young.

Swallows visit for such a short season.

While they are here
we share
each other's world.

Holding the Whole World

 

The wars drag on and the horrors 
I can do nothing to relieve.

Yet catbirds are building a nest in the hazelnut
I planted outside my window.

The climate changes faster than we can keep up,
causing suffering I can do nothing, single handedly, to allay.

Yet red-wing blackbirds are raising a family
atop the arrowwood in our hedgerow.

The rains did not come to southern Africa this year,
bringing hunger I can do nothing to mitigate.

Yet mockingbirds gorge 
on serviceberries in the front yard.

I urge my representatives to intervene in the world's needs
but their responses I cannot control.

Yet tree swallows are nesting in the gourd
I hung behind the barn.

I donate to relief organizations
but in the neediest areas aid does not get through.

Yet hummingbirds sip from columbine
and beardtongue in the back garden.

I grieve for all the changes I cannot bring
to the wide world.

Yet I am grateful for the all the changes
that I can.

Listen with Your Heart

This is my favorite poem, but I did not write it. It was written by Edna Jaques and I came across it in a British magazine while living in Botswana long ago. The pictures are from Kurt's Appalachian Trail hike in 2022.

Go out, go out, I beg of you,
and taste the beauty of the wild.
Behold the miracle of earth
with all the wonder of a child.
Walk hand in hand with nature's God
where scarlet lilies brightly flame.
Make footprints in the virgin sod
by some clear lake without a name.

Listen not only with your ears,
but make your heart a listening post.
Travel above the timber line,
make fires along some lonely coast.
Breathe the high air of snow-crowned peaks,
taste fog and kelp and salty tides.
Go pitch your tent among the pines
where golden sun and peace abides.

Follow the trail of moose and deer,
the wild goose on her lonely flight,
savor the fragrance of the wild,
the sweetness of a northern night.
Drink deep of distance, rest your eyes
where centuries of peace have lain.
And let your thoughts go winging out
beyond the realm of man's domain.

Lay hold upon the out of doors
with soul and heart and seeking brain.
You'll find the answer to all life
held in the sun and wind and rain.
Where'er you walk by land or sea
the page is clear for all who seek
if you will listen with your heart,
and let the voice of Nature speak.

               Edna Jaques

Fleeting

 

We waited all winter for signs of life,
skunk cabbage poking through the muck,
the eastern phoebe's song,
the red maple's crimson cloud.

And now spring is here,
the early garden swiftly morphing 
from bare ground and fallen leaves
into rosy bleeding hearts and creeping phlox,
golden ragwort and bellwort,
and Jacob's ladders' delicate blues.

We waited so long for what is too soon over.
Ephemeral beauty beckons,
inviting us into the moment.
Gifted by what we cannot control,
is this not grace? 

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.