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Posts Tagged ‘snow’

One Simultaneous

 

 

 

driving white knuckled

in the blizzard, meanwhile

a white camellia blooms

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When we were nine, we’d build

elaborate cities of snow

in the fifteen minutes before

the wail of the recess bell.

 

The boys would outwait us,

and as soon as we’d run

toward the school, they’d

knock our snow realm to the ground.

 

What is it in us that loves

to create? To build worlds?

To imagine a life taking shape?

And what is it, equally human, that

 

thrills in seeing it all fall down?

This morning, without me

lifting a finger, the world

remade itself in snow—

 

everything softer now,

smoothed and linked,

a unified kingdom of sparkle,

crystal and shine.

 

And once again, I am nine,

the winter grand. And once again, I long

to protect it, this beautiful world,

want to give it my imagination, my hands.

 

 

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Hi friends, I was off camping in the desert for a few days, then travelled to the glorious little town of Salida for a reading, and finally back home … here are a few small poems from the last few days … 

 

 

hell’s backbone grill—

the mouth begins to thrill

from two-hundred ten miles away

 

*

 

in the slot canyon—

knowing myself as water

moving through these walls

 

*

 

wind storm in the desert—

even my thoughts

fill with sand

 

*

 

this revolving door—

certainty, uncertainty, certainty

uncertainty

 

*

 

she sweeps the leaves

from the walk—

red carpet in reverse

 

*

 

waking in a blizzard

while in my ears, my scalp

still red sand

 

 

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I listen for the hidden wholeness, wisdom, and grace.

            —Wayne Muller

 

 

I’ve forgotten how to listen

for the hidden wholeness—

trained by the ring of the phone

and the morning alarm and

the unheard bells of the day

that say “go, go, go.”

I’ve forgotten how to be still.

To empty. To unexpect.

 

Today, though it is May,

the green world is covered

by snow. It’s one way the world

learns to unknow itself.

 

My teacher reminds me

how the deepest healing

can only take place in the quiet,

the still, the great awake.

 

I know she is right, but

it is the kind of knowing

that is too certain of itself.

 

As I walk, I open my hands

to let the snow land there.

I watch the flakes melt.

For a moment, I almost think

I can hear them. For a moment,

I forget who is doing the listening.

 

 

 

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The way the spruce tree

holds the wet snow—how

 

in a blizzard its branches

will bend and bend

 

and bend until they release—

that is the way I want to love you,

 

want to trust that I can hold

the weight of you as you fall,

 

as you continue to fall,

hold you until it seems I will break

 

and then, just when I’m sure

I can’t take any more,

 

release you back into yourself—

not in anger, not in fear,

 

not with guilt—release you

with green resilience

 

so that come the next storm

I am prepared

 

to catch you again, again,

and let you go.

 

 

 

 

 

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letting the sun

shovel the drive—

the morning and I supervise

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By then, the blizzard was strong enough

that we couldn’t see past the chair in front of us—

all was white oblivion. And though I knew

the world, though obscured, was still there,

part of me trusted the illusion.

 

It reminded me of when we were kids

and at slumber parties we’d play the game

“stiff as a board, light as a feather,” in which

one girl would lie in the center of a circle,

and another would tell the spooky story

 

of how the supine girl had died, and how, on her death,

her body was said to be “stiff as a board, light

as a feather,” and the rest of us would slip two fingers

beneath her and carry her about the room.

I knew, of course, that my 100-pound friends

 

were not truly feather light, but we played the game

over and over and swore it was true. There is some thrill

in sharing a myth that defies common sense.

And so today, when I say to my daughter

that we are entering a hidden realm through a veil

 

and she disagrees, I am shocked how disappointed

I am when she doesn’t share the game. In that instant,

the snow is just snow, the day just a day.

There is a joy here, too, in calling things as they are.

A woman. A girl. A storm. A chairlift traveling through.

 

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scraping snow

off the car windshield—

so, too, these frozen thoughts

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The snow was light and the moon was near full,

and the shovels skated across the drive.

 

The rest of the world was asleep

except for the shoveler and her shovels and the moon.

 

The snow was light and her thoughts were quiet,

quiet like leafless cottonwood trees

 

with branches that tangled with the forward moon.

There are nights when though we are alone

 

we are not alone,

nights when the darkness doesn’t seem so dark,

 

nights when our work feels not like work

and we step out of our homes, then out of ourselves,

 

and we are somehow unsurprised

by the way everything shines.

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One Friendship

 

for Corinne

 

 

skiing into the blizzard

finding laughter in gusts and drifts

skiing out into sunshine

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