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.

December 13, 2018 - So Much Winter

Although the official calendar tells us the season has not quite begun yet, winter comes early to us here.  Those who think there is a lack in winter simply do not pay attention.  There is abundance everywhere you look.  You need only open your eyes.  Each pine needle is lavishly coated in ice.  Not just the pinecones.  Not just the bark or the branches.  But every single needle is coated in its own sheath of shiny, perfect ice.  No pine needle is skipped over or forgotten.  Each is loved by the winter.

Sheaths of ice.

And so it is with everything:  The thick coat of white from the snow, which is continually renewed.  The children play games and build forts and ice skate on the frozen pond.  Layer upon layer of ice coats the fields and hills and mountains, and it will continue to grow and build all winter long.  Then when springtime comes, it will all melt and flow downward toward the sea, washing the land as it goes and preparing it for spring planting.

There is the intense green of the pines against the bright blue of the sky, colors we often forget about or take for granted in our search for hothouse flowers.  But how lucky we are to have them!  And there are the bright red feathers of the cardinals as they jump from tree to tree in search of seeds and old berries.  They contrast brilliantly against the blue feathers of the blue jays and the white feathers of the old snowy owls.

There are warm homes with smoke curling out of the chimneys and brightly lit fires in the woodstoves and fireplaces, of which we have an abundance here in Maine.  There is the old pot on the woodstove simmering away with beans or broth, perfuming the air with a good meal yet to come.  There is bread cooling on the counter in the kitchen and clean wet clothes drying on racks and makeshift clotheslines in the far rooms.  There are oil lamps clean and shiny and ready to be lit when the sun goes down.

There are hot cookies and hot cocoa and friends stopping by with holiday goodies.  There is a snowman melting in the yard, but that is okay because he will be back soon.  Perhaps he is the ultimate perennial winter flower.  There is the half-finished scarf lying on the side table, waiting to be picked up and worked on again when the mood (or need) strikes.  There are happy pets and chickens still laying an egg here and there, even in the cold winter.

There is so much abundance, so much goodness.  There is so much winter.

December 6, 2018 - Ice Mirror

ICE MIRROR

ice mirror

cold and crisp and clear

with frozen bony fingers

reflecting colder skies

still and grey and wintry

with no color of its own

masquerading as life

jealous and brittle and still

trapping leaves beneath the surface

the former symbols of Sun

held in a frozen embrace

in a seemingly timeless Winter

until Spring shatters the spell

December 4, 2018 - The Next Step

The wooden footbridge is none too steady, even in the summertime.  It is old and ought to be replaced, but time enough for that another day.  Now its planks, waterlogged and swollen and alternating between frozen and unfrozen, are downright dangerous.  There are a few spots that are bare, which the snow has filled in somewhat and made appear solid, but I know they are there so I walk gingerly and choose my steps with care.

The bridge across.

It is like anything in life, I suppose.  You make do.  Adapt.  Adjust.  Speculate.  And finally, you simply trust.  If you make it across, you smile and whistle and keep on going.  If you fall through, you pull yourself up, dry off as best as you can, head for shelter quickly, make alternate plans, and keep on going.  But if you wait for the perfect time, you might find yourself waiting a lifetime.  There never seems to be a perfect time.

I step out on the bridge and hear a creak.  Which board is next?  Ah, yes, this one.  I am sure of it.  I try to keep my mind out of it though, because my mind will just interfere and try to throw logic in.  In this kind of situation, logic truly needs to take the backseat.  I let my feet remember what to do because they have done it many times before.  If I just keep my thoughts silent, my feet miraculously know what to do.  Still, each step is taken gingerly, feeling a bit before putting my full weight down.  There is a way around this spot but it takes too long.  I do not have enough daylight left.

And suddenly I am across.  This time.  The sun shines brightly as it heads toward the tree line so early in the afternoon these days.  I should make haste before it gets dark, but I can linger just a bit and smile at my luck.  We will play the game again next time, I silently tell the bridge.  The bridge just smiles.  It can afford to wait.  It knows that eventually my luck will run out.  But today is not that day.

November 20, 2018 - Keep Going

Dealing with life’s difficulties as they come is part of a good life.  Slip under the tree.  Jump over the root ball.  I bundle up and keep warm from the assault of snow and wind, and I tie my scarf snugly around my neck.  The trunk hangs by a section of bark, and soon it will crash down across the path.  Then I will climb over the tree, and I will keep going.  Always, I will keep going.  It’s what I do.  Failure is not an option.