with a line from “After the Japanese” by Jack Granath
A warm March day
and the blue sky
slips itself
into the list
of things to do,
and I would have to be
deaf or just plain stubborn
to not hear the call
to play outside—
and damn, but
I’m stubborn,
so the world
sends a bobcat,
a red-tailed hawk
and a whole herd of elk
to the yard.
What’s a busy woman
to do
but surrender?
I don’t.
Head down, I get
the work done.
I put on the blinders
of responsibility
until a poem says to me,
You do the right thing,
citizen, and my chest pounds
in urgent code:
that. means. you.
and I put down
the work and walk
into the day
to do my duty,
which is to meet the world
that will never
send an email,
the world
that will never knock,
will never call,
but will always
say welcome,
citizen, welcome.
Posts Tagged ‘nature’
Finding My Calling
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged animals, busy, Jack Granath, nature, spring on March 10, 2021| 2 Comments »
Home
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged arriving, home, nature, river on March 8, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Even after all these years
of wandering this twisting path of self,
how is it I am still surprised
to find a new home inside the rush of river,
as if I haven’t been here
in this song of melting many times before?
How is it I forgot my home
inside the brittle brown grass of March,
home in the sweet moldering scent of spring,
home in the sun soaked day—
as if the great star of beginnings
is saying again to me, Come, friend.
How is it I sometimes forget to arrive
exactly where I am, especially in these days
when forgiveness arrives like the cranes
on great wings that charge the air.
These days when love comes crashing in
like western wind, breaking branches
and rearranging the yard, as if to say
it is here to change everything.
Sometimes I forget the world will find me
wherever I am and insist in the language
of willow and trunk and hawk and noon,
home, home, you are home.
Concurrent
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, nature, praise, snow, wound on December 12, 2020| Leave a Comment »
On a morning
when the snow
falls and drapes
everything in shine,
it is not that I don’t
feel the wounds—
raw and throbbing—
it’s just that it’s
so beautiful,
this tender world,
that I want
to praise it
forever.
Surrender
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grace, nature, peace, surrender on April 27, 2020| 6 Comments »
Some mornings I wake and the peace
that I tried to find yesterday finds me—
arrives in the open palms of the river scent,
in the erratic path of the warbler,
in the low golden angle of sun as it slants
through the gray knuckled branches of cottonwood trees.
Even the broken watering can seems to bring me
news of what’s been here all along—
the peace that holds up the turmoil, the mess.
And the dried grasses in the field
and the tiny new leaves on the currants
gather me into them. They’re like old friends who say,
It’s okay, make all the mistakes you want
around us. Some mornings, through no effort
of our own, we are gathered into the peace
of the patient lichen and the still pond.
It’s the difference between breathing
and being breathed, between asking for grace
and finding that grace has been asking for us.
Wanting a Fractal Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Corona Virus, fibonacci sequence, golden spiral, humanity, love, math, nature, pattern on April 5, 2020| 7 Comments »
Eadem mutata resurgo
Latin motto: Changed, I rise again
Sometimes in spring
I can still find the dried seeds
of the mountain mahogany
clinging to the ends
of the branches—
feathery golden spirals,
logarithmic and light.
How the universe
loves a pattern,
an elegant mathematics—
this same spiral is found
in spider webs, sunflowers,
snail shells, cyclones, the arms
of galaxies, the human ear,
even in the nerves of my cornea
that help me to see
the very pattern that
gives me the ability to see.
I want to find the self-similar spiral curve
that informs kindness and strength
as it spreads through a people. I want
to find the equation that calculates
an exponentially growing radius of love.
I want to find the dynamic beauty in us
that amplifies as it moves out
with ever increasing speed
from the infinite center.
I want to embody the trustworthy constant
that inspires our species to be better,
want to know the recursive courage that drives us
to thrive in difficult times.
Our potential, endless, yet humble
as last year’s seed in my hand, ready
to be planted, to sprout, to grow.
In the Hummingbird Nest Outside My Window
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bird, hope, hummingbird, nature, nest, poem, poetry on July 6, 2019| Leave a Comment »
From eggs
the size
of small
jelly beans
come these
two beaks
that peak
beyond the
edge—today
they save
me, these
two tiny
wingless things.
Even this
bruised heart
remembers how
to marvel.
Yes, That’s When
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, body image, nature, poem, poetry, walking on May 23, 2019| Leave a Comment »
I like my body when I’m in the woods
and I forget my body. I forget that arms,
that legs, that nose. I forget that waist,
that nerve, that skin. And I aspen. I mountain.
I river. I stone. I leaf. I path. I flower.
I like when I evergreen, current and berry.
I like when I mushroom, avalanche, cliff.
And everything is yes then, and everything
new: wild iris, duff, waterfall, dew.
Walking Up the Pass
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged duck, Emerging Form, mind, nature, ophir, poem, poetry on May 13, 2019| 2 Comments »
A mallard swims
in the beaver pond,
the sunlight makes
green praise of its head
and for an instant
the whole world
revolves around
emerald sheen.
There is little else
that’s green here,
though it is late spring—
but over 10,000 feet
the snow tends to linger.
This is a place where
the mind doesn’t hesitate
to offer its attention
to the sharp scent of trees,
to the snaking trickle of snowmelt,
to the thrill of cold air
in the lungs. And in giving
itself away, the mind
becomes clearer, becomes
a shining and natural thing,
like a mallard wing, like
a tree just before leafing,
like a canyon in which
the lush green world
is just about to emerge.
About Conviction
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged certainty, conviction, nature, poem, poetry, unknowing on October 25, 2018| Leave a Comment »
So much to learn from the fallen leaves,
the barren trees, the still green moss,
the skittish deer, the unturned stone,
the smooth gray limbs of loss,
fog hung like garland in the woods,
a secret spring, the brittle grass,
the yet unfurling truth in us,
the path that forgets it’s a path.
Walking Up the Mill Creek Road, Practicing How to Be Alive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, gratitude, marcus aurelius, nature, poem, poetry, Roman general, wind on October 9, 2018| 2 Comments »
You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
And though the leaves blush golden and red
and though the sun cups my face like a hand
and though the chill air makes me catch my breath
the wind whispers, friend, remember your death.
And I feel so deeply, so wildly alive
as I climb the hill, slight burn in my thighs
but I cannot pretend I am deaf
as the wind whispers soft, remember your death.
The Roman generals had their slaves
whisper to them in their moments of greatness,
remember your death—even as the crowds cheered—
to help them remember be humble, be here.
And the wind whispers yes, whispers yes to me.
And reminds me to take each step gratefully.
Remember your death, it says. Live now.
And with every step, though I don’t know to whom,
I say thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.