Somewhere an Owl

In the distance a barred owl sings
to the dark of a summer night
calling to his mate
or offspring.
Or perhaps he announces to the world
he is still here.
As are you.

Take courage.
Take heart.

The day will dawn when we can rest.

Resilience

 

The April freeze was not unexpected.
The ancient apple tree's white cloud
darkened to tan
by morning.

Yet her life blood flowed
and her limbs were strong
and in the alchemy
of her intention
new buds formed
and opened one by one.

The bees
returned.

Resilience

I'm not sure I know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.

I know of wood frogs who hibernate
in the leaf layer, whose
blood is like anti-freeze and 
whose bodies freeze and thaw
through the winter.
I know of woodland depressions,
bowls in the earth
who want to be ponds but 
must be patient
and wait
for winter's ice to melt 
into the water that fills them,
only to become dry land again 
when their work is done.

Contrary to what Jesus is said to have said,
seeds do not die when they fall to the ground.
Rather, embryos within fully alive,
they lie helpless and inert,
pummeled by rain and abrasion until
slowly they soften and sprout and
open to the world.
As do desert plants who live
so long dormant,
out of sight and forgotten,
until awakened by showers,
they burst into bloom,
set their seed,
and return to silent slumber
once again. 

I know of skunk cabbage,
warmed from within,
melting through the frozen muck
and emerging in late winter,
as though it cannot stand the
darkness a moment longer.
And snow geese and tundra swans,
and humans with hearts on fire,
who press on through the long unknown
to the land that calls
them home.

I don't know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.
But, from those who have no choice,
I learn.

Regeneration

Is there any sound more welcome than the trilling of toads on this soft, damp, still-dark morning? Except, maybe, the peepers calling in the background, exuberant in the genesis of another spring, having survived the sudden freeze of last week….as did we all.

Or is it the cardinals’ spring whistle, beginning before first light, before all other birds, the solo that rises above the amphibian chorus, soon joined by the chickadees’ counter-melody, high-pitched, sweet notes sung before dawn?

Or, perhaps, the chattering of the red-wings’ congregation, at the feeders and in the bare trees surrounding the house, waiting, as they are for the signal that spurs them towards the marsh and this season’s new reproductive urges.

Tiny, winged, samara cover the red maples, splashes of crimson against the grey of the still-bare woodlands, having defied the recent killing freeze. We lost the magnolia blossoms to its chill, and the early-blooming fruit trees but, the maple flowers, and their pollen, somehow survived. Overhead, their seeds, as testimony to resilience, perhaps, now dance in the slightest breeze.

In the woodlands, I rejoice in the blooming toothwort and spring beauties. Shall I also welcome the subtle beauty of weeds in the grass and at the edges of my garden beds? Purple deadnettle and henbit, blue speedwell, and the white chickweed and hairy bittercress have vigorously sprung to life, laughing at the chagrin of gardeners who believe they own the plots they tend. What is the mysterious awakening mechanism that drives them, their seeds germinating in the dead of winter, plants that flourish in the cold, and now offer their nectar and pollen as one of the few available food sources for newly emerged and hungry bees? Who am I to deny their value?

Beneath what can seem like just another late-March day in the meandering procession towards the longed-for spring, today holds an invitation to gratitude and to wonder at each step of the new season's unfolding. It offers opportunity to step out of our "every day" lives and to sink into moments of noticing the life around us, and in so doing, perhaps, noticing the life within us, as well.