I stand quite still snared by unaccustomed silence backlit in a pool of warmth and kitchen candle light looking out at darkness intimate in thick falling snow soundproofing all that lies beyond its edge until a car appears creeping down the mountain arm headlights poking through lace curtain flakes wheels soundless on the road deeply masked by white a traveler almost surely blind determination understood and much admired by me we share this moment and our quiet space until my door is shut again and he has passed us by
______________________________________ The world is well lost and soundless when it snows here. Like an infant’s view of life our boundaries shrink for a bit.
this morning life rose earlier
by minutes that felt wider
accordioning out the day,
winter’s pearl blue light
cut by blades of gold
cast from the ridge
revealed the snow well broken in,
squirrel byways clearly marked
seed leavings on white crests,
starter crystal stalactites
lipped from the roof,
evidence of romping dogs
mouse tracks
and my own red squirrel visitor
in a quiet moment
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immediate snow is always special, but some time out from its fall the evidence of life outside the house reveals itself.
frost painting echo trees
on woods facing windows
in the coldest
days and nights
of the dark months
the panes must be calling
siren like, their remnant
grains of earth
almost alive once more,
or is it that trees hear
the windows sigh
and send their shadow shapes
to be as one?
the still bright reach
of setting moon on snow
slender plum tree shadows
reaching from the west,
coyote yips and calls
caroming off the mountain
through black ice
ribbon wrapped woods,
snaking through
my open window arrow slit,
rousing the defenders
of this sleeping winter bastion
to make their voices heard
our pennant flown in answer
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nothing gets dogs up from sleep to full on barks faster than the coyote pack at night.
in the end the day
brought almost nothing
waiting for the thrash of winter’s fist
to stop us cold
a flick of indecisive wrist
arrived instead
a shadow of much bigger kin
spewing this and that
a weaving mincing minuet
danced by a drunken storm
that in the end
picked up its skirts
and ran away to sea
shouting gaily
flipping off
the solemn
weather seers
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a bit of tongue in cheek this morning. we got off easy yesterday during a noreaster that could have been much worse.
light lies flat and gray behind my pines
no emerging blue with morning star
nor sailing clouds with rosy blotted core
a morning to rejoice because it’s mine
and I am able to give voice
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a shortling gift from an early morning, with gratitude for another day.
Many days since I have seen a moon
both night and dawn obscured by cloud or rain.
Days of leached out richness
lacking diamond clustered white,
creep fingered winter reaching out
to shackle and restrain my thoughts
till sun regains the upper hand,
tossing me the keys that come with
fledgling green and tender smells of earth
(around an oxbow bend of time and out of sight).
Tonight we have thick, clotted blots of snow,
flake armies blanketing the world, scouting
morning’s aftermath of shapes standing bright
against fresh blue. A constant roar
of moving trees, teeth of the north wind auto harp.
Deep ink heaven once again blown clean,
Diana’s slivered waxing moon
emcees emerging stars, until he comes.
A reaching leap of arms and sword and strength,
his belt the perfect anchor for my eyes,
standing watch, protector of the frozen skies.
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I look for Orion each winter, knowing he stands watch over our frozen nights.
last night I knew a dream
within a dream
waking from the first
yet still asleep to see
familiar pinpoint
allegory road signs
faces that I knew so well
this time we were adrift together
on a sea not visited awake
then turning, sinking back to lethe
as tingle echoes ricocheted away
and woke to see a brilliant slash
of sunrise pink behind the spiky pines
that dimmed so fast to flattened gray
my only capture yet again
was memory
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a shortling linking the fleeting vividness of my dreams last night to the transient brilliance of sunrise on waking. for Jane, who said goodbye to her beloved Alan this week, and for Candy.
The Whites are singing the morning awake today, as the dogs get fed, as I make some tea and watch things busy up out the window over the kitchen sink. Today I am grateful, as always, to see another sunrise, listening to music, in a place that I love deeply. Writing is on my mind this morning, I have had little time or energy for it this week, and it feels luxurious to anticipate the smooth feel of my pen on paper.
Day by day the house is looking a little more Christmas-ish. Favorite memory rich things bringing light and color to December’s squeezing down days. I am riding a wave of work that began the day after Thanksgiving and won’t quit until just before Christmas. It leaves my thoughts dim and cloudy in transition each night, muffled by tiredness., unless there is music to open my heart’s inner ear and let feelings out to air.
Happily this time of year is rich that way. Wednesday night found me singing with the Fitzwilliam Occasional Singers, rehearsing for Sunday afternoon’s tree lighting on the Common. Roughly fifteen of us, friends and fellow singers, gather every year to do this, and my city emigre heart is glad to sing again in a small village, and be part of a gift to the children and families of Fitzwilliam.
It will be full dark as we walk over from the church, just before five. The village windows glowing with candle lights. The tree waiting, unlit. Bustle. Portable lights get turned on. People begin to arrive, drifting into the glow from the recesses of the Common. Children sit on the ground in front, a wide crescent of small bundled up figures and smiling faces. It will be cold (but not as cold as last year, when Deb’s accordion froze up and we had to sing a cappella).
And then we will begin. Walden reading A Visit From St. Nicholas (The Night Before Christmas), Bill leading us through the carols we rehearsed, accompanied by Deb on her accordion. Then a carol sing for everyone (first verses only, and lots of laughter for Rudolph). At last Santa will roll in on the Fitzwilliam Fire Truck to light the tree, and talk to the children.
After there will be hot cocoa (so good in the cold) and home made cookies, while folks visit, then slowly disperse as the evening’s trappings are loaded into cars and trucks, along with us. Dark and quiet will settle on the Common again, except for the tree, its shining presence standing sentry until the new year.
winter morning’s dark
dogs wait blots against the rug
bach fugues dance softly
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music and sunday mornings go hand in hand for me. the dogs are stretched out against the soft jewel tones of the old oriental rug on the dining room floor, in the soft lamplight of early morning. baroque music on the radio. coffee next!
the apple tree has given up its leaves
sightlines to the treescape skyline
of the mountain ridge are visible again
skeleton beauty skirting stripped down
lilac oak and beech, embracing stolid
pine arms, needles feathering
this morning’s straggler sun
a wedge of brown and gray and light
this small world peaceful
waiting for the snow
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this is one of those mornings when the contrast between the world outside my kitchen window and places of violence and sorrow is very stark. I am grateful for this peace, even as I mourn another shattered night and pray for France.
It turns out that I do have a muse. His name is Horace (Horrie) and he is my shadow, fetcher of slippers, foot warmer, and writing companion. A smart three year old black lab, he knows I am his work, is pretty sure that if I go out he should come along, and much of the time he does.
Life With Horace 