Sunday, November 26, 2017

First Winter's Night

At dusk in November, the first winter’s night   
Crept into the pale blue air.        
When the north wind spilled its rich, deep dyes,
The light in the skies drew my eyes to the glass
And I witnessed the last sun of autumn pass.

The moment had gone. With a breath I returned
To the labor that fills each day,
To work that required four thousand breaths more
Before I opened my door and had done.                             
Too tired to wash, too tired to clean, but I let
Habit pull me through the routines.
Something outside seemed to push on the walls,
Pressed the air heavy and dim on my brow,
And too soon I slept by the lamp at the window,
The only sound three ticking clocks.

All unaware, stillness changed to a feast
When they came light on feet shod in blue, gold, and white,
With a piper’s reel and the scent of the night.
They lit every candle and toasted the flames
With a rich draught of dark honeyed mead.
Scattering crumbs of spice-cake and pie,
With a whirl and a twirl they leaped laughing by,
And the caper carried them under the sky
Once again, to dance on the paths of the moon.

But I heard the pipe and I caught the perfume,
Recalled dancing myself in the light of the moon
Long ago, and the moment of memory pierced
Like an arrow, and fiercely I felt the hot gladness
And sorrow roll down.

I leapt up and opened the door to the night
And burning there in the ink-dark sky
Met the bright eyes of all of the ancient world’s stories
Sharp-cut and clear beyond two evergreens,
My sentinels bristling stoic and tall.
In new awe of them all
I drank deep of the air, tonight a cold stream,
Clean and alive with the heartsongs of trees.
Then blowing a kiss to the moon, I
Reached up to the stars to offer a bow
In respect, and I joined the invisible crowd
In their dance on this first winter’s night. 

Saturday, November 18, 2017

"All you need is love and a puppy..."

Pupper photo here because I miss Lily, too.

These past 11 days have been a jolt, an education, and a catalyst for me. How many things we do for ourselves every day when we have the free use of our bodies! It is likewise astonishing how all these little things add up their time throughout the day. I would not have believed it was possible for me to work essentially two full-time jobs at once. In all honesty, it is not sustainable. Nevertheless, being able to do it for the short term leads me to reassess the way I've been organizing my time at home. 

Thanksgiving will soon be here. On many past celebrations of the day, I have probably mentioned being thankful for my family. I am now learning a new depth of gratitude for the strong and loving people in my family, whom I took for granted for so many years, like air or daylight. While in various ways the world seems to grow dark and cold, the trust and faithfulness of familial love still feed the flames of hope.  With the mission at hand, I am thankful each day for the work my aunt and sister did to rebuild this battered nest and give its bird a chance to heal his wings. Thankful that he is indeed healing and growing stronger, that he is still with us. Thank God for giving us enough grace to bear the trials. 

I miss something very much. I am rediscovering the feel of writing and the pull of its potential. The cello is becoming a friend, a door to a landscape of happy toil: part exploring and mapping, and part building. Soft encouragement still radiates out of a loaf of homemade bread. There are goals I want to pursue again. And behind it all, with the companionship of a dusky shadow, is the Something I find myself missing. I am not, and I am, content.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Zzz?

Floating
I think
So tired
I am

Perhaps
we are all
on loan from
hospital

Dazed and
beeping and
machines
sighing for us

It really might
all end
in
diapers

Till then
is the time
we have to
live

Saturday, November 11, 2017

The Professor

I am old, my body heavy
The weight of decades
Pulls me earthward;
Solid bones like mountain ridges,
Stiff muscles like an ancient ox.

Once was a time
I gave no thought
To waking or sleeping.
The point was the work,
My life was the work.

Incidental, everything else
Clothes– incidental
Food– incidental
Car– holds together
Haircut? My hat's all I need.

The shining quest, the fire,
Which I with dogged steady steps pursued,
Was knowledge: A treasure
To be both won and shared,
Spread to the furthest corners.

Who is man and whence comes he?
Ancient peoples, alive as we think ourselves to be,
Worshiped, warred, wed, and worked.
The pieces of their lives remain and
They themselves remain, so we should see.

The years that fell with dust
Upon their kitchen tools
Never choked the fires
Burning from their hearts. And so
I chose my place beside their hearths.

Years have not been so kind to me.
They press upon my lungs
To keep the stale air in
So that my very blood
Circulates confusion in my brain

Betrayed by blood, now water
Mutinies to jump the sinking ship;
Brigand keen to forge a blazing trail,
It burns my body as it goes,
Making purple limbs stiff as wooden boards.

Now blood, then dust.
My groaning body mountain
Will fall and turn to dust,
And will the fire below
Burn strong throughout the night?

November - William Cullen Bryant

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet-lea,
And man delight to linger in the ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

William Cullen Bryant