When the Geese Go

Written on a blue paper sky,

late autumn sentences are spelled out with twigs,

punctuated by small, black birds.

A sketch of leafless trees,

colored-pencil straight,

line up in shades of gray and brown.

Tales of a winter hillside,

an ice-skimmed pond,

geese listening for their cue

to close the book,

leaving silence and snow

behind.

The Pond at Dawn

Sunday morning prompt: Wake up some part of your participation in nature – what will please you when you go out there, what will delight you, what is offered – use all senses.

At first I was aware

only of the outer me,

face in the cold, damp air,

hands stuffed in warm pockets,

feet planted in the bedraggled grass at pond’s edge.

Wavelets moved in stately fashion

in response to a breeze I barely felt.

A single white swan floated.

A single gray heron flapped.

A single black crow called.

In that moment I felt myself let go.

My heart beat—measured, stately—

matched the waves

that bore the swan,

that lured the heron,

that listened to the crow.

I was the wave, the birds, the minimum breeze.

My breath was theirs,

their heartbeats mine,

in that consciousness that holds us all at once

in the palm of its hand.

Month of Losses, Month of Gains

November is the spare season.

Nature’s bones show

in the ribbed rocks

and naked hardwoods.

Color blows down

as scattered leaves,

leeches into the soil,

in monochromatic brown.

Warmth lingers in hidden places,

in corners and deep grasses,

close to the earth

where roots gather.

Trees are stripped and polished

by wind and sun,

the sky scoured by energetic rain,

cloud buffed and blue-bright.

Slow down, says the season.

Gather in, hunker down.

I comply, storing root crops,

counting blessings by the jar.

I learn to live the seasons,

to differentiate sky calls of greeting and farewell,

knowing that what leaves in November

returns in the spring.

All around me dance the twin fires,

death and life interchanging,

energy and smoke,

the blossom faded, the seed set.

Dark and cold come hand in hand,

arriving early, staying late,

bringing coziness as a house gift,

unwrapping hours of ease,

an excuse to curl by the fire

book in hand, drink at the elbow,

while rain lashes the windows

and the wind wails because it can’t get in.