January 7, 2019 - The Unsung Heroes

As every day melts into the next and then solidifies, I find it is the unsung heroes who are most important.  That would not be the noble bald eagle flying high above, talons outstretched, looking for his next kill.  It would not be the sinuous lynx as she sneaks through the frozen tundra, searching for dinner.  It would also not be the bold black bear, mostly sleeping in his den now, although occasionally making a dreadful appearance.

Hard worker.  Planter of trees.

The sun, then?  That magnificent golden orb in the sky?  Certainly not.  Of all the heroes in this universe, perhaps his praises have been sung the most.  The moon, then?  Less intense and furtive to be sure, but she too is a heroine about which countless poems have been written.  The shining stars?  The raging wind?  The magnificent sea?  No.  Heroes all.

What, then, is an unsung hero?  The unsung hero is the unnoticed hero.  He is the one who quietly protects.  The one who silently leads without others knowing.  She is the one who plods on in her thankless work, gathering what she may here and there, storing for leaner times, hoping for better.  She is the one who teaches, without whom others could not hope to succeed.  He is the one who gently sings a song so quietly, that only the snow could hear, if it were listening.

The unsung heroes do the boring work, which comprises most of the work of the world.  They weave the background of the magnificent tapestry we call life, in front of which the mighty eagle appears small by comparison.  They feed and teach and soothe and hope.  They are not called large or brave or strong or beautiful.  In fact, they are not noticed at all.  They walk silently throughout the landscape, rarely making a sound, holding the world together whenever it threatens to burst apart yet again.

January 3, 2019 - Silent Fields

SILENT FIELDS

Silent fields

stark and white

with hidden strength

the cattle searching

content as much with ice

as with verdant green

and sweet hay

the cloaked sunshine

 with patience

and secret knowledge

of veiled seeds

that burst

in answer to a prayer

of long lost birdsong.

January 1, 2019 - It is January

The relentless ocean sweeps back and forth now in the cove, assaulting the docks built for sunnier days.  No boats ride by with friends waving to friends on the shore.  Those are just memories from warmer times.  Or they might only be dreams; we cannot be sure.  There are no fishermen now to confirm the stories.  There are just the gulls and the ocean and the wind.

I have seen docks come and go, built up with high hopes and destroyed in a single storm.  And still the ocean sweeps back and forth and keeps her coves tidy.  The docks mean very little to her.  The water reflects the greyness of the sky, or perhaps it is the other way around.  Perhaps the sky reflects the greyness of the water.  It is January, after all, and the answer is not important.

The swollen wood creaks in the current, and there is a bell clanking in the distance that breaks the howling of the wind.  Beginnings are always cold and grey here on the shore.  A gull once told me a lie about the golden sun.  I smiled but I did not believe him because it was January, and it has always been cold.