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.
Frozen ground and frozen fingers
fumbling with latches
that secure barn doors
against the night,
sluggish opening
to the day
still shrouded
in darkness.
Frozen, nervous,
on high alert,
they assess the danger
of an unseen threat
beyond the fence line,
measuring their safety
inside a boundary
long ago erected
for their
protection.
Frozen water in the buckets,
frozen longings
in the soul,
desperate to know what
is real,
to see beyond the murkiness
of the what-if,
to know the safety
of an eternal
enfolding,
unfolding,
grace.
Yet, into the grip
of the unknown,
into the immobility
of our fear,
into our frenzied
effort to escape
the dark,
eventually,
finally,
always,
the dawn.
