Death Watch

After my mother died,
I took comfort in dry leaves
turning to duff on the forest floor.
She loved the sea, but I
couldn't go there to spread
what was left of her. I
lowered the last ashes 
into the river,
trusting the current 
to take her where she
most wanted to be.

After my friend died,
it took her weeks to die and I 
sat with her through it all,
no one wanted
her remains.
I spread them
beneath her roses,
and some I tossed into the air
of my own garden,
hoping for blessing,
like Galadriel's dust.

Where do you scatter the ashes
of a nation?

February 6, 2025

 

Outside my window, a cardinal
sings his glad spring song while
democracy crashes.
How fortunate is he
not to be
human.

Candles

I posted this a couple of years ago, but after revising it some, I don't know about you, but I need it now.

How brave,
each standing
alone,
stalwart,
fending off the deepening darkness
that presses in, 
and the cold.

Single flames 
flickering,
dancing to 
the rhythm of those
gathered round
longing for light
they cannot
create.

Brave may we now be,
alone
or together, 
welcoming
the Light,
passing on the warmth
bestowed 
in these dark times,
and cold.

January's Song

When the earth is as hard as the rocks piled at the edge of the field,
tufted titmice whistle as they forage from hedgerow and feeder,

when snow buries the landscape and icicles hang from the branches,
dark-eyed juncos trill in the soft sunlight, feasting on sycamore seeds,

when winds sweep across the pasture and seep through the cracks in the old barn,
Carolina wrens chatter as they pick dried insects from old spider webs in the rafters,

when Orion and Gemini hover as pinpricks of light in the dark winter sky,
great horned owls whisper a distant duet in the mountains behind the house.

 

Blessing for Wintertide

 

When your heart feels as hardened
as ice upon the pond,
may tadpoles in the mud below
remind you of hibernation's gift.

When your inner life seems drab
as winter's monochrome,
may you be surprised by the cardinal's crimson
or a bluebird's russet breast.

When your spirit's song is stilled
and you can't recall the tune,
may you join the chickadee's refrain
sung long before the thaw.

When you feel as wizened 
as the hazelnut's limp catkins,
may plumping pussy willow buds foretell
the fruitfulness to come.

When your hope is as frozen
as the ground on which you walk,
may the Light in all that is
kindle new warmth and light your way.