Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Tag Archives: light

sunset in a small town


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passing through town to home

the day has changed from bright
to scrims of clouds washed sky blue pink
backdrop to summer quiet playing fields

further south a sidelong glance
at underbelly clouds thick swathed peach red
flying over marshes at the river curve

in town the day is winding down
cars and people move intent on fuel
and food and rest for it’s been hot

and by the time the single light releases me
to turn due west deep pink to purple blasts
are shouting over pines and spires

I steal a look into our cafe’s glow
observe last patient walks for dogs
church supper signs and flags

the colors quickly leach away
though day’s end light remains enough
to cover hilly rattle roads

then rollercoasting mountain arms
a final sling to home beside the pond
in time to greet a rising moon

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even though going through town takes longer, I love to observe and watch along the way. the other night the stages of what proved to be a spectacular sunset were a marvelous backdrop to my small country town in the middle of summer.

gift of sudden light


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gift of sudden light

morning brings the flowering world
to wait outside my door again
its gift complete
an honest bounty within reach

I glance away, and in
that moment sun arms
leap above the mountain ridge
to cast breath stealing light

and startle me to unexpected joy
when happiness, no simple thing
arriving first was present
and most certainly enough

light’s twin is thought
conjoined with time
its tipping point
arrived at step by step

the pilgrim mind walks on
until the heart is open
and able to receive
the sudden glimpse of truth


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Morning as palindrome

As words begin their dance
glancing out at spring
sitting down at last to write
confident of its receipt
asking for serenity
another day a perfect gift
reflecting and give thanks
I close my eyes to sip
hand cupping warmth
coffee and the ritual of smell
checking lilacs apple buds
birds scatter at the noise
opening the outer door
woods featureless and flat
moving softly hug the quiet
slightly damp delight
one slipper at a time
morning work for dogs
stretch sloughing sleep’s cement
a feather shawl to float away
night journey remnants linger
as clouds replace the sun
light diffuse and gray
dog nose to tail against my arm
first awareness as I wake
a dream departs

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Day 28. I loved writing this. The prompt was for an event or story in reverse.


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witness

morning light slants through spring woods
and the grass grows green again

three blue bags of roadside trash
and the grass grows green again

air is soft at dark’s approach
and the grass grows green again

screams of trees ripped from the earth
and the grass grows green again

early birdsong noisy joy
and the grass grows green again

news of rising hate brings dread
and the grass grows green again

summer stars the hunter gone
and the grass grows green again

prayers whispered for the world
and the grass grows green again

truth is not a skin we shed
and the grass grows green again

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Day 26. A call and response poem.


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Pole Stars

Outside an open window
long bones of morning light
stretch across new green
and under petal floats
Mind’s eye leaping past
advancing spring
to waiting brown woods
Snowdrops hang, quiet white
broken only by the calls of jays
or arcing cardinal voice
I ache for home
those starker hills
and life lived on a wilder scale
With the flow of my brook’s
ambient song in counterpoint
to raven growls and beaver slaps
The shouting silence of the stars
that touch my trees
Small-hours communion with the moon
cupped softly by the dark
My homeward journey’s pull is strong
yet it will be hard to leave
a house so filled with love
and people of my bones,
Twin pole stars
anchoring the heart


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two days on

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.


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opaque dawn

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.


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Waiting for the hunter

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.


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looking through

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.


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dawn reflected

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.