The Spare Season's Subtle Song

 

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

Benediction

Some years ago, my mind in tumult,
I came to you, 
and you bowed, 
(or was it a curtsy?)
Dressed in green
(or was it gold?)
your nimble limbs swept toward me
when there was no breath of wind,
beckoning and offering blessing 
in your wordless way.

The winter woods around you are seldom silent, 
usually filled with chips and twitters,
unmelodious whistles, squeaks and squawks.
But today there is music - 
the single, lilting phrase of a hermit thrush,
promise of hope for what lies beyond
this frozen moment,
promise for the future.

On this end-of-year solstice morning
I have come seeking you.
Clothed now in tans and silver,
limbs stiffened in the cold,
you move less easily now.
And yet, again I have come.
I have come for your benediction.
I have come to say goodbye.