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.
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.
unaccustomed light beams up from my small pond
a gift I grudge our downstream beaver cadre,
shermanesque repurposers of woods and mud
whose path had thinned the eastern trees
this morning’s sight was not the sliver moon
pendant under brilliant venus
that had called to me in bed
but dawn with spikes of leafless trees
in shadowed counterpoint
the possibility of future treats looms large
even as my mind resists this change
reflected moons and shooting stars
crusted ice or waves of snow
morse code tracks from there to here
so as I fight to deconstruct
the engineering feat that threatens
to engulf beloved trees
I whisper thanks for fallout gifts
and pray that what comes next is peace
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the back boundary of my land is a named brook, with a small seasonal pondlet cum mudhole, which was quickly becoming a full on pond by the time I realized what was happening at the end of this summer. beavers are amazing engineers, cross layering branches and twigs to make their dams, and excavating existing banks for mud to wall new water in. taking all this down is not easy, and I was quite sad about having to do it, until I discovered that there was no lodge out back but only “land grooming” for future expansion. I suspect this is merely the latest skirmish between the beavers and the owners of this house since it was built in 1796.
moon’s afterglow fades
star shapes sink into the trees
Orion still hunts
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living at the foot of a mountain means a casual glance outside is usually framed by tall pines, or stars dipping below the horizon just above the house. the seasonal sky shift is here, with winter favorites like Orion returning. the night sky has been clear most nights, and the stars have been bright in spite of the recent full moon.
edges after frost
silver rims the still green leaf
tree crowns lit by sun
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we have had our first truly cold nights. things are dying back. the sun comes up later over the mountain arm, and light proceeds down from the tree tops. today I start feeding the birds again.
it starts again where it left off
no steady stream of cogent thought
but snips of words implied
and whuffing breath upon my hair
a toss of eyes, soft nosing in my hand
fingered lips come for their gift
and stay to glean the remnant juice
I stand between them
under arching heads and necks
unafraid and shivering with joy
our steps retrace
an imprint starmap dance
away from stepping heavy hoof
and back, to look up
into eyes that hold infinity
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for Pamela Moshimer Rickenbach, Mithra and Brian, and the horses of Blue Star Equitation.
flashes in the lilacs
after days of rain
semaphores of water drops
silent signals
from the master singers
are they warnings of
our imminent arrival
at the cliff’s edge
or waves of vibrant
ecstasy sent
to heal a broken heart
the sky’s first star night’s scout
piercing the scrim of fading light
that hides the spirit dome of heaven
once seen it must be wished on
our lore never for ourselves
to make the magic work
my heart stored its wishes where it could
in the beams of other stars
under the wings of catbirds
in the warmth of sleepy dark
deep in thrush song
or layered in the lamp hung blue of early night
all forgotten over time
in the flow of life away from wonder
wearing down the prickly instincts
of a younger self
walking in my wake unseen
there was a dream gatherer
Ninhan my ancestor of the Mohawk people
taking wishes to her heart
against a future need she knew would come
some years ago my heart connected
with the force of messy life
in a nearby marshland
talisman and refuge
where my feet felt rooted
its spirit cloaked my shoulders
settling on my skin and filling my eyes
the very heart of life
seeing this she knew the time had come
and sowed the air with a wish become a dream
and so I sang again
another as a glowing drop to open up my eyes
rejoice once more in line and color
my deepest wish was to create without restraint
to find the headwaters of my soul
almost buried by the dark paned windows of an early time
faces of blank fear following me from age to age
until I went there in a dream
to vanquish them and bring back light
her answer was
to shower me with stars
a million wishes worth
that set me sparking
whirling to catch words
and once more find my voice
to shout aloud with joy
bright sunlight this morning
coming home I leave the pond flats
almost turning in
you run gaily out across the road
right in front of me
from the gap in my fence that
all you chippies race along
and drive the dogs mad
(stop oh stop go faster)
fast but not fast enough
a tiny thump small pebble sound
(oh no oh no oh no)
one of my own maddening
sleek sloe eyed chippies
and come back fast to get you
I know your markings
pale backed curious explorer
(tears flow helpless geysers of regret)
only a glancing blow
no crow carrion not today
you are part of this place
I gather your warm soft body
(the child inside my heart wails
oh no chippie why why oh why)
with a poachers spade dig a hole
by the door it needs a guard
now that is you safe soft shrouded
under a small river rock cairn here in eden
(I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry, I loved you)
the woods are almost
ready to go boom
and scatter green,
banishing the sight
of humus steeping gently
by our stream and up the slopes,
waving in (come right this way!)
the aftermath of ferny clumps,
slim wildflower tips,
red rhubarb nubs
to join (departing) snowdrops,
or cocoons of daffy yellow
still mostly closed
here in the north.
I shiver as the rising sun
floats by my skin and heats
the green fluorescent
that has taken much too long
to beat the cold and
shine full force.
spring is on approach
and I am ready
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a poem for Earth Day and NaPoWriMo 2015 day 22.
another zooming bird
yawping canny xenophobic
dipping wings eager
voyager flying unfettered
gliding the heather
sky in random
joyous quoits kitelike
over lambent ponds
nimble marvel
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for Day 10 of NaPoWriMo 2015: an alphabetic poem using words starting with the 26 letters of the alphabet. instead of going straight through the letters start at the ends and meet in the middle by the finish.
Life With Horace 