even though the days
have turned a corner
and the sun shines boldly
on my pillow once again,
I am stalled in
longbone chilling thoughts
lusting after green and heat
until bursting out to tramp
the blues away, I hear
the white pines talk,
waving over snowbound roots,
the creaking cold of boots
on crystal flakes,
see the angled sun
illuminating dusted white,
a swirl of snow
blown off a tree,
a swarm of frozen gnats
in winter air,
a multitude of hungry
upside down buff teardrops,
our mourning doves in
bundled rows awaiting seed,
ruby pendant berries,
blinks of color over monochrome,
faithful evergreens
protecting buried nubs of spring,
I turn for home
longing sated once again,
and know I will regret their
passing
Category Archives: life up here
blanketed
ejected from
safe flannel warmth
by bossy time’s
insistent beat,
I patter early
as the world
outside the kitchen glass
grows light,
and see two cousins
on each side,
one bathed in light.
kept safe,
the other riding out
a winter storm,
its spare brown stalks
both memory and promise
of reunion.
a burst of chickadees
despite the morning’s
snow and wind,
the birds came, knowing
they would feed here
in the sheltered tuck
of our house’s ell.
when they had
picked it clean,
I ventured out
with snow drunk dogs
to heap the platform
high with seed again
and stuff the suet grid.
as I struggled,
being short,
to place the hanger
on an apple branch,
a flutter led my eye
to see a burst
of small black caps,
spread scattershot
through apple arms
and lilac upright spray,
brassy bold, waiting for
their feast,
and us to go.
___________________________
not knowing what form the snow would take, it was a shock to see upwards of 30 birds (no exaggeration) together at our feeders this morning, in the middle of swirling snow and wind. mourning doves, jays, chickadees, cardinals, titmice, nuthatches, downy woodpeckers, hairy woodpeckers, a red bellied woodpecker, slate colored juncoes, the odd sparrow all came and went, constant movement, an amazing sight. our chickadees are pretty fearless, and they regularly wait (and scold us if they think we move too slowly) when the other birds have fled. the sight of 15 or so of them spread out in the branches while I filled the feeders was marvelous.
The lover
Brown eyes that relegated those of graceland’s long-gone king
to minor status, a dedicated would-be ladies man
busking for apples and caresses on his velvet nose,
infinitely curious, sidling up to eager hands to give as well as take
His middle life was night to bright days at Bedlam, his courage fable worthy
walking a path of pain and fear right to the brink, rallying when all hope
seemed gone, taking a chance at life found only in his dreams
Great will and vital spirit, embers fanned by voices of his sudden liberation
he chose life, a miracle of parts, his resurrection measured by small steps
great victories for him and for the people working to reclaim his life in full
Despite his none too patient jennys and indifferent sheep
once healed he stood his ground, they were his charges
as was any child that came within his reach, a solid presence for small bodies
lovingly benign, an echo of his youth
His friendship won was golden, taking morning kisses, braying out his siren call
sometimes fierce, he never claimed perfection nor did we ask it
he led us gently to communion with his world, departing when he knew
his work was done
The pasture slope near his beloved tree is where he rests, and we will visit
bringing love
__________________________________
For Simon, who died yesterday, January 3, 2015. and for Jon and Maria who shared him with us.
Night Silence
In this old house
the winter night
is many things,
but not deep quiet,
never utter stillness,
both conceits of
humans in retreat.
With us at rest
it moves and breathes
in darkness.
Sighing wood and stone,
the whine and snore of dogs
feet twitching gently
as they dream,
Small colonies of mice
sensed more than heard,
Remnant memories
within its walls
merge with the energy
of word and color
line and shape,
collected and held close
to make this much loved place.
And so I head for bed
the last light gone,
leaving the plants looking out
at the night
to watch the snow fall.
speaking of gratitude
in early morning dark
approaching solstice,
thoughts clearing slowly,
a morning mist, awareness
spurs coherent thought
of thanks
for yet another day
to find myself alive,
no matter winter ice,
thoughts left over
and undone tasks,
certain that
joy will always rise
behind the pines
with the sun if asked,
serenity will be granted
if prayed for, even in
an unexpected form,
and now, prepared,
my soul is glad
to greet the sun
_______________________________
this morning’s freezing rain reminds me to be grateful nevertheless, a bit perverse I suppose. the roosting birds to the left are mourning/morning doves. 18 days to the solstice!
Dancer in the mist
I stand alone, counting time
wrapped in the kiss of fog
sensing but not seeing
others of my kind
waiting, shouldered, upright
at the edges of this pasture
I dream in solitude, aching
for the touch of other roots
however faint, to feel
earth’s water flow to
reaching deep dug tendrils
of my kindred in the woods
I dance in secret, moving
with prevailing winds
my branching shape their echo
but in summer dark or autumn mist
the sounds of crickets, calls of flying geese
lend their beat to summon ecstasy
as I sway until the dawn
_____________________________________
The tree in this photo seemed to move in place.
Photograph by Jon Katz, copyright © 2014,
used with permission.
feasting on ferns
my eyes and heart
are drunk, replete
with shape and color
through the woods,
an honor guard
along our path,
by wetland neighbors,
freshet pools,
and roadside banks
tender fiddle hairs,
silver webbing over
curling celadon,
opening to graceful sweeps,
full green in summer,
waltzing, dipping in
the woody understory
the turn to fall is quiet,
flat headed fronds on stems
in bronze and rust
lead the march to
lush chrome gold,
an ostrich carpet
thrown across dark woods
the smallest feathered shapes
move to a quiet fade,
color ebbing slowly
as leaves and needles drop,
blanketing these remnant
bits of light and warmth
fortified again
small voyagers
headed home at sunset
glancing west
to rosy afterglow, and
wetland maples
just turned scarlet,
I catch movement
just above my head
a flock speeds south
so few in number,
dark against the sky,
all dips and earnest flutter
seeking evening safety,
respite from their
star imprinted
journey south
my heart clenching, driving on
I whisper through my soul
to theirs, safe travels,
fly to sun and blooms,
leave advancing winter
here with us
but please return
with earth’s retilt,
we need you back again
to warm
our frozen hearts
______________________________
seeing very small birds flying south brings me worry for their safety, their migration a sure sign that another season of warmth and light is coming to a close.
incidental gifts
in a season of
surfeit
a visitor lands
on my windshield
a suspended reminder
that beauty is
not perfection’s
birthright
__________________________
this time of year I am punch drunk with beauty. the leaves on my windshield reminded me not to make assumptions about where I will see it. a saturday morning shortling.
sleeping in moonglow
a whole moon
shrinking
without stark relief
or angles
perhaps hanging
in a mist I cannot see
its clear light
muted and opaque
entering my room
by stealth
air brushing
walls and shapes
and sets them floating
in the glow
along with me
_____________________________________
a shortling, about the moonlight that found every corner of my room last night. it was so different, I couldn’t help but notice.
as the day appears
out the kitchen window
tree shapes firming
into open sky, no clouds,
no stars either when I woke,
odd perhaps, but then it is
September, morning mist
that snakes through lip and rift
of mountain arms we sit below.
no birds yet, they are coming,
morning racers like my neighbors
on their way to work, engines
smoothly powering along,
except for one white truck,
rough run noise his signature,
not quite glass pack,
loving laying rubber
when he knows I’ll hear,
turning to the town and work,
the squeal is saved for later
and a certain audience.
I am grateful,
smiling.
Life With Horace 