Unstoppable

In the season of still-deep-winter
have you noticed
the wild things drawn
beyond this moment?

The juncos have begun trilling
from the treetops,
their restless hearts gladly
anticipating the prospect of moving on,
moving back.
And a single robin whinnies
in the damp woods across the road,
not yet singing, but heeding the
the pull towards longer days and
the hormonal shift
that awaits.
As do the bluebirds,
chortling their sweet notes,
flirting and pairing up,
preparations beginning,
the future on 
their minds.

Snow still lies heavy
on the land
and yet, the inexorable
movement towards spring
has begun, unfolding in
its own time, 
unstoppable,
untamable,
holy.

Have you noticed?

On This Frozen Ash Wednesday Morning

 

They are both calling, a 
duet of sorts, two species
in conversation. Or perhaps three,
my own soul responding 
as I enter in, as I breathe a sigh
of relief at their song
on this grey and
frozen morning, before 
the next round of snow.

Communion between cardinal
and wren. Between them and me.
Between God and them and me
and all that is on this
bright and frozen morning,
before the next
round of snow.

Of Skunk Cabbages and Cardinals (or Hope in the Bleak Late Winter)

They have emerged, unlikely
harbingers of spring's coming
glory, their
inobtrusive mottled
heads rising through the
frozen muck melted by the
heat of their own bodies.
In the days ahead,
at just the right moment,
their humanly unappreciated scent
will draw first-of-the-year
flies and beetles
to feast on their, as-yet-undeveloped,
pollen.

He sings this morning, an exuberant  
rhythmic, clear whistle  
not heard since last spring, 
when he was courting.
February is too early for courting
and yet, in the now,
as the sun rises higher and
the daylight lengthens,
he tunes his voice and
his hopes towards
what is to
come. 

As do I.

Beauty Among the Browns

 

Searching for beauty among the browns 
And the greys and tans of
winter’s pall,
I tire of platitudes about
sleeping trees, their well-earned rest
and exquisite structure,
most keenly noticed
in their nakedness.
I tire of their stiffness and the
wind’s fierce moan
pummeling bare branches
and frozen bark,
of icy earth and water.

And so I search, intently,
diligently, persistently, as though
my life depended upon the outcome,
which it does…my inner life that
longs for beauty in the severity
and meaning in the waiting, hope
that this trying time will give way to
flowering and fruiting once again.

In the seeking is the finding, 
subtle though the rewards may be...
a few remaining winterberries hanging from dejected stems,
fuzzy grey magnolia buds and 
the-very-slowly-swelling, creamy
globules at the end of sassafras twigs,
enfolding next year’s leaves.
Beneath the woodland floor lie
tawny moth pupae and grubs and
the pale green points of skunk cabbage,
poking their heads above the surface,
testing the temperatures
undaunted by the chill, 

Are these the vibrant colors I long for?
Those that wind their way into verse and prose, so easily
conjuring images that make me smile?
No. 
But they are the colors of now, of what is now,
and in that I will rest. They are the
colors that protect and surround and
allow the birds of winter to
blend into their background
and become invisible against the tree trunks -
junco’s, white-throats, song sparrows, chickadees, titmice,
nuthatches, woodpeckers, Carolina wrens, mourning doves,
and the Cooper's and sharp-shinned hawks that hunt them, 
drab colors all.

Beauty among the tans and greys,
beauty among the browns.

Lace

 

Towering,

stripped,

exposed,

besieged by winter gales,

beleaguered partners

giving voice

to the wind.

 

Guardians,

protectors,

anchors,

branches straining upward,

lords of the woodland,

lace against 

the sky.

If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

Reposting this is becoming an autumn tradition

If you are very quiet
you can hear 
the leaves fall,
following
their twirling, swirling dance
with your ears
as well as your eyes, 
until they come to rest
gently
at your feet.

Amidst the 
gales 
that loosen
their grip,
even amidst the 
tumult
that rages
in your mind, 
if you stop, and
if you will yourself
to listen, 
you will hear their
falling-gently-to-earth whispers, 
as they rustle through
their companions
on the once-in-a-lifetime
descent.

Background noise
fills my mind
right now...
Outer noise of destruction, 
of greed, 
of power wielded wrongly.
Inner voices of fear,
of sadness, 
of outrage, 
of powerlessness...
noise that will surely drown me 
if I let it and
render me deaf, 
even to the Good.

And yet,

in stillness,
I can notice that
which is beyond
myself
and all my thoughts.
Gazing at
the trees of autumn,
standing and swaying
in the winds
that strip their leaves,

Grace breaks through.
I am renewed.

If you are very quiet, you can hear the leaves fall. 
Listen....

Deeply Rooted

 

Windflowers
(because they are deeply rooted,
with a nod to Psalm 1 and St Paul)

Tall
and graceful,
supple dancers
straining heavenward,
though no one tends them,
swaying in the slightest breeze
storm-blown but not broken
in autumn as others fade
cheery pink and yellow 
welcoming faces
hosting hungry
bees.