I step into the darkness
of not knowing
in the driving rain
I stumble upon
a migration
of salamanders
returning to the waters.
Do you love me now?
I ask.
Will you love me
even after
I am gone?
The monarchs
return from Michoacan
to comfort the migrants
tumbling into vans
in the Blue Ridge dawn.
You love me now.
You say.
You will love me
even after
I am gone.
We are all immigrants
of habit
rain drives us in
the sun calls us out.
Prayer flags flap
in the cold wind
forsythia bursts
open the garden
and rocks
bubble up
from the ground.
I love you now
I will love you
even after
you are gone.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
GOLD
Wood frog eggs
cling to branches
in icy waters
as fiddleheads
push through leaves
flat with the weight
of deep snow
dwarf ginseng begs
me to watch my feet
and marsh marigolds
splash yellow flowers
through a wetland
vibrating in green
so long in coming.
It is a cruel trick of Nature
to shower us with so much abundance
after so lean a time
and then take it all away again.
Gold rises
from the roots
of an old apple tree
flowers
and says,
"EAT!"
cling to branches
in icy waters
as fiddleheads
push through leaves
flat with the weight
of deep snow
dwarf ginseng begs
me to watch my feet
and marsh marigolds
splash yellow flowers
through a wetland
vibrating in green
so long in coming.
It is a cruel trick of Nature
to shower us with so much abundance
after so lean a time
and then take it all away again.
Gold rises
from the roots
of an old apple tree
flowers
and says,
"EAT!"
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Possession
I drink from the darkness
of the Big Dipper
lives unnoticed by sunlight
coyote pups
born in the dank of the earth
as the tail of a beaver
cracks like a shotgun blast
in the still water
at three a.m.
I am possessed
by the cacophony
that breaks winter
and announces
the triumphant return
of breath.
I have only
my own senses
in the blindness
of night
no bones
no skin
nothing to hold
my soul in check
except the liquid crystal
that breaks from the lungs
of creatures
smaller than my thumbnail.
I am caught
by the reverberations
of eternity
in this one moment
of possession
in the deepest
space between
two breaths.
of the Big Dipper
lives unnoticed by sunlight
coyote pups
born in the dank of the earth
as the tail of a beaver
cracks like a shotgun blast
in the still water
at three a.m.
I am possessed
by the cacophony
that breaks winter
and announces
the triumphant return
of breath.
I have only
my own senses
in the blindness
of night
no bones
no skin
nothing to hold
my soul in check
except the liquid crystal
that breaks from the lungs
of creatures
smaller than my thumbnail.
I am caught
by the reverberations
of eternity
in this one moment
of possession
in the deepest
space between
two breaths.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Thaw
It is April 9 and the temperature has yet to reach sixty. The sun is strong as I head out through the first snow drops in the garden. I shield my eyes against the glare of the snow. It may be spring elsewhere, but here in Snowy Hollow it is still winter.
The snow has turned from a solid block of ice into big pellets of corn snow that I fall through up to my knees. It feels good against the warmth of the day. I stop at a spring to look for signs of salamanders and wood frogs, but it is still too early. The waters from this spring that burble down a small waterfall into a brook are the headwaters of a watershed that runs into the Connecticut River and finally out into the Atlantic. I wonder if I drop a leaf into the brook, will it make it all the way the ocean?
I follow the brook down to the pond. It, too, is still frozen. I remember the eighty degree spring day that I sat beside the pond and watched the ice melt. Frogs would jump from the water onto the ice and slowly freeze as they tried to make their way across. It was a lesson in cold blooded biology unravelling before my eyes.
I continue along the brook as it turns into a series of beaver swamps. I am looking for skunk cabbage, but there is none yet. The only sign of the oncoming season is a few marsh marigold leaves. This is a land in transition. What was once a brook is becoming a pond as the beaver expands the wetlands in these woods.
I look out across a large marsh. A blue heron is perched on its nest in the middle of an icy expanse. Two pairs of mergansers hang in the open water beside the icy edge and a few geese strut across the ice towards them, honking in defense of their territory. The spring battles are about to begin.
I follow the flowing water to the river and walk the gorge road. The ice is thick and it makes the going difficult. The waters of the river are raging. They carry the sediment of these hills to the ocean. They are so high that the waterfall at the bend has disappeared into wild rapids. I imagine myself swirling in the power of the water and lose myself to the deafening roar. This is the sound of winter's last stand! I open my arms to the sky and raise my voice to the river. This is Spring!
The snow has turned from a solid block of ice into big pellets of corn snow that I fall through up to my knees. It feels good against the warmth of the day. I stop at a spring to look for signs of salamanders and wood frogs, but it is still too early. The waters from this spring that burble down a small waterfall into a brook are the headwaters of a watershed that runs into the Connecticut River and finally out into the Atlantic. I wonder if I drop a leaf into the brook, will it make it all the way the ocean?
I follow the brook down to the pond. It, too, is still frozen. I remember the eighty degree spring day that I sat beside the pond and watched the ice melt. Frogs would jump from the water onto the ice and slowly freeze as they tried to make their way across. It was a lesson in cold blooded biology unravelling before my eyes.
I continue along the brook as it turns into a series of beaver swamps. I am looking for skunk cabbage, but there is none yet. The only sign of the oncoming season is a few marsh marigold leaves. This is a land in transition. What was once a brook is becoming a pond as the beaver expands the wetlands in these woods.
I look out across a large marsh. A blue heron is perched on its nest in the middle of an icy expanse. Two pairs of mergansers hang in the open water beside the icy edge and a few geese strut across the ice towards them, honking in defense of their territory. The spring battles are about to begin.
I follow the flowing water to the river and walk the gorge road. The ice is thick and it makes the going difficult. The waters of the river are raging. They carry the sediment of these hills to the ocean. They are so high that the waterfall at the bend has disappeared into wild rapids. I imagine myself swirling in the power of the water and lose myself to the deafening roar. This is the sound of winter's last stand! I open my arms to the sky and raise my voice to the river. This is Spring!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Energy Is the Bottom Line
I walk through the woods on two feet of frozen snow, looking for signs of spring. The brook is rushing and seeps are appearing. There are raccoon tracks in the mud around the open water. I am hoping to find skunk cabbage poking through the detritus of winter, but it is still too early.
This is the hunger time. The easy prey, moles, mice, chipmunks, and squirrels are safe in their holes under the ice. Hawks and owls are visiting bird feeders. Raccoons hang out on peoples' decks. Energy is the bottom line. I follow coyote tracks. A pair has direct registered across an open field. One stepping in the other's print. They are headed for a bird feeder. There is no exploration in their path. They have no energy for curiosity. They have pups on the way. They are hungry.
I look at the trails of the three dogs I am walking. They are all over the place. They can afford to expend energy. They are well fed and live in a warm house. In fact, I am walking them just so that they will expend energy. Two of them even have their long coats cut short. Their lives are so different from their wild cousins. Their rituals are not dictated by survival.
I think about energy. Food. Oil. Water. The resources necessary for survival. I think about Maslow's hierarchy and how it is impossible to attend to anything beyond survival if the basic needs of food, shelter, and water are not met. I remember watching a woman at Shoney's All You Can Eat Buffet somewhere in North Carolina last week. She was a slight woman, dressed in her Sunday best. She sat alone, eating very slowly, savoring each bite. She kept going back to the buffet to fill her plate. I wondered if she had saved the seven dollars just for this buffet and was eating the only real meal she had had in a long time.
I hear on the radio that a gallon of milk costs eighty-five million dollars in Zimbabwe. Eighty-five million dollars. People mix non-dairy creamer with water and plant corn in the median strips along the highway. They eat dirt. Food is a political weapon. Energy is the bottom line. These are the hunger times.
My wife tells me I should write about happier things and I am drawn once more to the beauty of a winter snowfall and the solitude it brings.
Like the bear, I can sleep another day.
This is the hunger time. The easy prey, moles, mice, chipmunks, and squirrels are safe in their holes under the ice. Hawks and owls are visiting bird feeders. Raccoons hang out on peoples' decks. Energy is the bottom line. I follow coyote tracks. A pair has direct registered across an open field. One stepping in the other's print. They are headed for a bird feeder. There is no exploration in their path. They have no energy for curiosity. They have pups on the way. They are hungry.
I look at the trails of the three dogs I am walking. They are all over the place. They can afford to expend energy. They are well fed and live in a warm house. In fact, I am walking them just so that they will expend energy. Two of them even have their long coats cut short. Their lives are so different from their wild cousins. Their rituals are not dictated by survival.
I think about energy. Food. Oil. Water. The resources necessary for survival. I think about Maslow's hierarchy and how it is impossible to attend to anything beyond survival if the basic needs of food, shelter, and water are not met. I remember watching a woman at Shoney's All You Can Eat Buffet somewhere in North Carolina last week. She was a slight woman, dressed in her Sunday best. She sat alone, eating very slowly, savoring each bite. She kept going back to the buffet to fill her plate. I wondered if she had saved the seven dollars just for this buffet and was eating the only real meal she had had in a long time.
I hear on the radio that a gallon of milk costs eighty-five million dollars in Zimbabwe. Eighty-five million dollars. People mix non-dairy creamer with water and plant corn in the median strips along the highway. They eat dirt. Food is a political weapon. Energy is the bottom line. These are the hunger times.
My wife tells me I should write about happier things and I am drawn once more to the beauty of a winter snowfall and the solitude it brings.
Like the bear, I can sleep another day.
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