February 28, 2019 - The Bones of Winter

The white trunks and branches of the birch trees reach up into the blue winter sky.  Like all trees, they are the bones of the earth.  But unlike the other trees that try to hide this fact, the white birches jut outward like the cold, bleached bones they are, unashamed.  Like macabre skeletons, they dance against the deep blue background.

Earth's skeleton.

I cannot help but think that winter is their favorite season.  In the summer, they are engulfed in greenery like all trees, drowned out by the sheer weight and volume of the green growth of the season.  After the initial greedy gulp of green occurs in the spring, people turn their glances away from the trees, glutted with vegetation.  Fickle humans.  “Give me greens!  Give me flowers!  Give me fruit!”  It never ends.

No one says, “Give me bones!”  Give me skeletons that click and clack back and forth in the wind.  Give me life bleached out and dry and brittle.  Give me carcasses and stiff remains and hollow shells.  Give me washed-out corpses and rattling cadavers shimmering against the dark blue sky, lit up like the true “bone-fire” they are by the winter sun.

Remember us, say the bleached birches, when the spring comes.  We are the foundation, the frame, the scaffolding, the support system of the world.  Do not be fooled by the transient green, here today and back in the spirit world tomorrow.  We are the fabric of the world, the shell, the structure, the frame, the scheme, the essence of the planet--clicking in our antique rib cages, dancing in the frozen blue.

February 15, 2019 - The Tiny Seed

Where are you now, tiny seed?  Oh, tiny bit of life in a little tan envelope, placed in the soil and long since frozen over.  The ground is now hard with several inches of ice over it and many more inches of snow on top of that.  Where is the tiny seed?  How could it possibly survive all the harshness of the dark and cold?

We know from experience that somehow every year the tiny seed emerges, and life bursts forth in a massive riot of green.  Yet every year we cannot help but wonder, will this be the year the tiny seed does not come back?  Maybe this year was too much for it.  And even though we find ourselves gratefully wrong every year, still we wonder in earnest the following winter, will this be the year the tiny seed does not come back?

Somewhere in the darkness . . .

In the dark of the night I planted a seed.  I buried it in the depths of my mind, hidden far, far down in the darkness.  Then the destruction came, and everything died around me.  The ice slowly built and enclosed the once-fertile land, and the white snow piled deep and thick and cold.  Somewhere underneath it all, the tiny seed sat in its tiny cell, silent, quiet, at peace.

And I didn’t even ask the question, will this be the year the tiny seed does not come back?  Because I had forgotten all about the tiny seed.  Too much sorrow.  Too much death and destruction.  The world had turned cold, and so had I.  It was a natural progression of ice building upon ice.  Shimmering, crystal ice, perfect in its form.  There is peace in the frozen world as well, I thought, beauty locked in timeless hexagons of primordial power.

But just like the tiny seed in the frozen earth (and really, there is no difference at all), just like the seed that somehow explodes into a mass of greenery in the world again, the tiny seed I had planted deep within my mind stirred.  It swelled and rolled and pulsated.  And suddenly it leapt from the depth of my consciousness, fully grown before me, and handed me a sword.  “Go and get the light,” it said, “And if it does not come willingly, grab it and take it!”

But the light loves tiny seeds, and where the seed goes, so goes the light.  Many believe that it is the other way around, that the seed follows the light.  But that is not true.  It is the light that follows the seed.  For what good is a world of brilliance if it is locked in pristine sterility?  No.  It is the seed that bursts forth with the enchanting beauty of life, brought to its full potential by the light, that brings the world to fruition.

The sword was not necessary, but I kept it anyway as a guardian, protecting the Path between the world of potential and the world of form.  Just beyond the Sword’s reach is the Light.  The guardian (or perhaps the gardener?) asks at sword point of all who wander down the path, “Who goes there?!”  All falter and stop and turn around, because only a tiny seed may enter.

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.