Autumn Budding

 

Pale green against the twigs
and fading summer leaves, 
they hang as an enigma,
as a deposit on what will emerge
months from now,
on the other side of winter.

Young catkins protecting tiny
grains of ripening pollen
growing deep within,
holding on by strength of stem 
and will,
soon buffeted by cold and 
winter's worst, withered
grueling days of getting by
while the darkling world is frozen.

And what of us? 
Like catkins,
battered by grief and confusion,
we deepen into the fruit of
what we are becoming.
Like a pregnant mama's experience of
awkward bodily disruptions,
punctuated by exhaustion,
discomfort, uncertainty...
uncomfortable growth
that supports the newness she will bear.
We will bear.

Next summer, there will be hazelnuts.

The Autumn Garden (or Why I Plant)

We are in the thick of the autumn migration now. Warblers, flycatchers, other insect eating birds, raptors, hummingbirds, dragonflies, Monarchs are all making their way hundreds or even thousands of miles south to warmth and food as our northern regions freeze over, even as our native bee species continue feeding and reproducing while there is still time.

They come through, and sometimes pause, in our yard, finding an abundance of nectar and pollen, seeds, berries and insects and shelter to fuel them for the next leg of their journey.

This, above all other reasons, is why I plant. The hedgerow and gardens that surround our house I plant for beauty, of course, but even more, for a short while, to be a part of the lives of these small, courageous, holy creatures that fleetingly share my space.

Through these pictures, I invite you to share in it too.

 

 

The Voice of God

Until this morning, I have never equated
the overly-enthusiastic crowing of our neighbor's rooster,
who lives just beyond our bedroom window,
with the voice of God. 
Heard from a distance, he might sound charming,
quaint, nostalgic even, like some far-off
church bell calling the faithful to meeting.

Up close, he is loud. And insistent.
And, after living near him for so long, 
I can recognize his voice among the throng
of other roosters in the area.
Until this morning, I have never equated
his raucous, before-the-dawn, persistent,
rooster song with a call to Morning Prayer.
Nor, as he mysteriously begins again
a couple of hours before dusk, 
as an invitation to Compline. 

In the spring, his calling drowns out
the early morning birdsong I strain to hear
and, as the late-summer's soft droning
of crickets and katydids fills the background,
his crowing dominates the airways.
Morning in and evening out, in all seasons
and through all sorts of weather,
his voice opens and closes each and every day.
And, just as reliably, as I journey through each of these days,
he often interrupts the flow of my thoughts with
with his vigorous, punctuated reminders of his presence,
assuring me, sometimes inconveniently,
that whether he is vocalizing or not, 
he is always there,
always present,
unseen, perhaps, but
always hovering in the background. 

I have never thought of the rooster's crowing
as the voice of God.
Now I know better.

Slowly Silent Ripening

 

I feel it every day now.
Not just the summer heat,
or the oppressive humidity,
but the season's slowing down,
of life, almost imperceptibly,
maturing around me,
the inner preparation 
for changes to come, and
the goodbyes soon to
be said.

The Joe-pye blooms in a
profusion of abundance by the pond,
the mountain mint sways
with the buzzing of busy bees,
and the garden is 
a joyous, jostling, crowded exuberance
of late summer flowers. 
No order I have imposed survives
this season.

Baby birds fill the yard these days,
scratching through the mulch,
darting between shrubs and
foraging through the plant stalks, 
learning to fend for
themselves, 
the most important work of
their lives. 

Singing summer crickets and katydids
provide the soundtrack of
my days and nights,
and barn swallows gather on
the telephone wire from which they launch
into a frenzy of feeding and fattening.
Ruby-throats zip about
on their annual,
energetically-determined
journey south and 
peewees sing their plaintive song
from the nearby woodland.
Soon they will all be gone.

In tidal rivers there is a moment
between the turning of the tides,
a moment of complete stillness
in which no water moves, 
as if the river holds its breath,
gathering itself for what comes 
next, for the movement that
is about to begin. 

So it feels in late summer, 
the time of slowly silent ripening 
and preparation for what is 
to come.
And, in this season,
what, I wonder,
is the slowly
silent ripening
in me?

Companionship

The lightening bugs are rising tonight.
Effortlessly they lift 
and glide
into the darkness,
unmindful of
human ways.
Inhabiting the same space,
we live a world apart. 

Crickets and katydids 
have begun to sing. 
With no thought of me, still
they live their lives entwined with mine. 
As does the dragonfly, buzzing
past my shoulder in the dusky twilight,
hunting insects in the garden.

Do wild things know when
they are welcome?
In return for sustenance
they offer me 
their presence. 
Companionship
mutually gifted,
mutually blessed.

I Began The Day With the Oriole's Song

I began the day with the oriole's song
sung from the treetops,
a piercing, exuberant whistle of gladness
at the prospect of being alive and
the promise of procreation and
the glory of this moment.

And with the catbird's soft murmuring 
from the back thicket, sung by 
a jaunty fellow whose
quiet, if persistent,
friendly prattle
will accompany me
through my day.

And with the hummingbird's bold chatter
that warns off friend and foe alike,
whose tiny stature is
simply a disguise
for the fierce and untamable spirit
that lives within.

But it is the wood thrush,
that mystic of the woodlands, 
whose lilting, numinous invitation
beckons,
and calls me into silence and
into the wildness of
wordless prayer, into
simply being with
and being in
the unseen, 
always present,
Presence
of God.

With the Wild Ones

On this Easter day, as others flock
to churches and organ music or
brass ensembles proclaiming
the resurrection of Jesus,
I am drawn to quiet,
to the woodlands and
the silence of all but birdsong and
the wind in the trees and
the running stream's murmuring 
over rocks.
Here I can kneel and give thanks for 
the carpet of these tiny ones on the forest floor -
spring beauties and dwarf ginseng and 
trout lily, blooming where nobody sees 
or appreciates them. Except me.
And God.

I wonder at the garden 
where Jesus was laid.
Was it as lovely and
as peaceful as here,
where I walk with Him
this morning?
In this this time-created garden
not made with human hands,
we sit together,
He and I,
and with the wild ones 
we enjoy our own
quietly exuberant
celebration 
of Easter.