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
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.
It is time for a reprise of this poem from a couple of years ago.
Most of the Nativity scenes we have come to know,
those pictures of Mary looking rested,
confident and clean,
serene and smiling,
looking comfortable...
They don’t depict the weariness,
the immobilizing exhaustion
of hard labor,
nor the
all-consuming effort
it takes
to push a baby out into this world,
nor the blood and
amniotic fluid,
nor the expelled placenta
that needed to be cleaned up
after the birth.
Those scenes the artists render
of spotless robes
and a tidy stable (or cave)
with cozy light...
They don’t depict the manure on the floor,
nor livestock urinating into their bedding,
nor the interior’s darkness illumined only
by candle light.
Surely there were mice in the straw.
Were there rats?
Did Mary nervously notice
every sound of scurrying
around her?
How did she ever sleep?
Of course the baby would be laid
in the feeding trough.
Where else?
Set up off the floor,
the safest and cleanest spot
available.
Were there cows?
Did they amble over
to the manger,
to sniff, and lick,
and welcome Jesus
as the new baby in their midst,
as cows are prone to do?
Did Joseph keep a wary eye
the attending animals’
curious attention
to his
newly-born son?
The historic birth was
far more miraculous than we
might imagine.
Jesus survived.
So did Mary.
And all the detail not depicted
in the artists’ renditions
makes Mary
one of us.
And makes Jesus, whom she bore
by the sweat of her brow,
one of us.
One with us.
Emmanuel.
The icy stream bubbles between
shallow stones
singing as she tumbles
by boulders
and below submerged
black gum roots
A solitary titmouse whistles the descant
chickadees chirp a staccato antiphon
from on high
white-throats rustle
like brushes on a snare drum
in the scattered leaf layer below
Howling winds whine
through white oaks' bare branches
breezes rattle beeches'
lingering leaves
Winter waiting in the woodland
Advent choir along Dogwood Run
Let wandering sassafras roam the garden
let Beauty meander where it will
overtopping staid intentions
for what should
be.
Let autumn's asters reseed with abandon
let Wisdom blow across the land
scattered as by a breath
to barren places
lacking life.
Let rivers rise across the floodplain
let Truth be carried by the current
deposited as fertile silt
rejuvenating weary
minds.
Let rain patter gently on all the lands
let Love soak into thirsty ground
softening arid soils and souls
becoming part of all
that is.
Every scrap of remaining beauty
every last
autumn-tinted leaf hanging from a twig
or lying
still vibrant on the forest floor
Every morning clothed in mist
every drizzly
day of rain pattering on spent gardens
or frozen fields
frosted white at sunrise
Every cardinal's clipped chip note
every whitethroat's
sweet whistle in the hedgerow
or the junco's
bell choir in the winter meadow
Every moment holy
On This Cloudy Damp November Morning
chickadees chortle
in the gnarled old apple tree
whitethroats whistle
in the mist
and drab goldfinches gather
to glean from spent coneflowers
and the Susans.
Breezes brush through
sassafras’s last ruby-red leaves
and pawpaw’s clinging gold
stirring the hazelnut’s burnished copper
and witch hazels’ butter-yellow blooms.
Surrounded by autumn’s gifts
no one is richer
than me.
Savoring every scrap of subtle beauty before winter’s long rest.
I Want To Be That Child Again
who skipped down the sidewalk past porches
decorated with jack o' lanterns, black cats and witches' hats
who stuffed her pockets
with as many acorns and hickory nuts as she could carry
who searched for red and yellow and orange leaves
to bring home and press in the family encyclopedia
who floated boats made of walnut halves with toothpick sails
in the nearby pond
who gathered grass and dirt and pine needles
to craft a nourishing soup for her imaginary friends
who standing arms outstretched in the swirling leaves
knew autumn would last forever.
I am reprising this poem from last year in praise of the colors and coming of fall.
The kinglets have come
ruby-throats are gone
and today I heard the sapsucker's
whine.
Gold plated pawpaws
crimson painted sassafras
frost asters blanket the fields
in lace.
Red-tails circle above,
white-throats rustle through the garden,
and days like black walnut leaves,
float one-by-one
away.
Beauty's blaze
faded
does she rue
her bare branches
where cardinals
perch
to devour
bitter berries?
Ripening over
the course
of a lifetime
we
offer our
fruit
to the world.
that doesn't stop coming
Like the parched autumn
landscape
day after day of drought
Or skinny deer
in a lean mast year
wandering in search of acorns
Or tree swallows' fruitless
flights
to gather insects
in a drizzling cold
April
Like wilted September spicebushes
who wait for rain
perhaps
someday
showers will fall
and we
will be revived
once again
Droplets of dew on towering jewelweed
sparkle like a thousand diamonds at dawn
Breeze-blown sassafras cast shadows at sunrise
light and dark dancing at daybreak
Young catbirds splash in shallow puddles
each drop the sun’s prism suspended in mid-air
Ruby-throats thread through stalks of crimson cardinal flowers
swaying with stationary partners at first light
The rising sun creeps over the horizon
bathing the morning in gold
A casual breeze
ripples
across
the whole
pond.
Can a casual act
of goodness
ripple
across
the whole
world?
Tree crickets trill nocturnal melodies into the wee hours
Handsome trigs' sweet staccato punctuates the day
Ruby-throats threaten and feud in restless frenzy
Bumblebees burrow down deep into orange jewelweed blooms
Sassafras' first leaves blush into crimson
Butter-yellow black walnut trees loosen their grip
Indian grass blankets the field in bronze
Mistflower billows into fuzzy blue clouds
Amid the social order's slow crumbling
the Holy lives among us.
This is what happens when the plants design the garden display.
