Thoughts of Spring

Yes, it is still winter, but there are a few small token blossoms - the prelude to spring. The slender green spears of crocus and daffodil are reaching tentatively through the rich, dark soil and peering at the sky. In town, tiny red and yellow flowers are popping up all over the place, but here on the hilltop they are still waiting. They are motionless on the outside, but somewhere in that thread-like shoot of green there is beauty growing; a beauty which will slowly, gracefully emerge into petals of pale lavender and yellow.
Inside the house, thriving on the fragments of sunshine that stream through the window, is my little potted rose bush. There are several flowers blooming into complete (if miniature) crimson roses. They would be perfect, except for one factor: the never-ending parade of aphids which reappear every morning. But I very unceremoniously blow them out the door every time I water the bush, in  the hope that one day I will get rid of them forever. And the satin softness of each flushed rose leaf when they are aphid-free is enough to make up for the little pests.
Flowers, of course, aren't the only signs leading up to spring's flurry of growth and color. There are so many subtle messages on the topic, beginning as early as mid-January, and even before that I know that there is a pulse of life under that hard, frozen ground, and a stirring to future wakefulness along the veins of the wintering trees. There is never a time of year when the world is entirely silent, it seems. From one spring to the next, including in the dead of winter, there is always quiet, and often invisible, living going on. But now I can finally see it, and in just a few months there will be a full, vibrant, rich splendor of music dancing through the garden and woods.

More From the Poetry Corner

The Dapple-cat

Two dainty paws on the pine tree bark,

Two on the pine-needle floor,

And one white-tipped tail held high in the air.

Smoke-grey and sleek, as swift as a lark,

Creamy pale splotches like foam on the shore –

One little dapple-cat prowling there.

Sharp, bright green eyes, hunting for mice,

Scanning the dew-speckled grass

While pointed, silk ears hear each tiny squeak.

Sometimes, the dapple-cat is actually nice,

Curled as still as a figure of glass

Or lapping up milk looking ever so meek.

But the wild dapple-cat is nearly all free,

Strolling a walk with his tiger-perfect grace.

Haughty, and lazy, and completely alone;

The emerald eyes seem to hold every key,

All knowledge is seen in that face,

And music is heard in that sly purring tone.

The dapple-cat, all on his own…

~Faerynn M.

Walking

It is a moody sort of day. One minute the rain is pouring down - a spirited cascade of silver fireworks splashing against the window panes - and the next the sky, empty of rain, is a tumult of grey and blue, while the wind is tossing the tree boughs with reckless haste. A myriad of clustering raindrops will twinkle in the momentary sunlight, and then it is gone, leaving a grey, misted calm to take its place. That is the way it is now. There is a ring of clouds spreading upward from the horizon, but the center of the sky is a clear evening blue (broken every so often by an intricate design of lacy grey). 

On my walk this afternoon everything was clear, damp and spring-like. The moss carpeting the forest floor was such a vibrant green that it looked almost unreal, and each fresh burst of sunlight revealed tiny green buds lining thin branches; branches which cleverly hid the little singers of the forest. The birds were very good at remaining unseen, though I did notice one tiny creature hopping along in the underbrush, and I could hear them. Once, rounding a bend in the woodland path I often use, I listened to an incredible, sweet bird melody that I can't remember hearing before (but I easily could have, as I don't generally remember very well). And then, just as the bird ended its song, I heard a very different sound: the crack of a branch under a firm hoof. There were three deer, blending into the foliage on my right, walking ever so softly along their own well-used trails. It never ceases to amaze me how graceful deer are, how very gentle their footsteps are as long as they aren't frightened. They were startled to see me, though  they probably noticed me before I did them. But after the initial surprise we just stood there, staring curiously at each other. I took note of their sleek brown grace, and their ears which were so attuned to every bird call, snapping twig, and squirrel barking in the distance. I wonder what they thought of me...

Valentine's Day on the Hilltop

There are always a lot of traditions attached to a holiday; whole strings of special food, special events, special gatherings and special people are remembered as the appointed day unfolds. For Christmas it's turkey and pine trees and fuzzy socks, on New Year's Eve there is a midnight sip of sparkling cider. The dawn of Easter smells like cinnamon bread, new spring dresses and curled hair, and the Fourth of July is a day for parades and and watermelon and hot sun and the U.S. And then, in the middle of a cold, rainy winter, is today: a time for warm hearts, red tissue paper and gifts of flowers. Usually we celebrate in the morning with Valentine cards, and in the evening with chocolate milkshakes and hamburgers around the table. This year is different. Not everyone is here today, and so we will save our Valentine dinner for the weekend, though we still passed around cards this morning. It is a little sad to postpone it, but there is that deeper meaning for a holiday (and every day) that miles can't ruin. The essence of Valentine's Day is love, and in our family there is love and celebration between us even when we're not within sight of one another. There are little notes and red paper hearts travelling from post office to post office as they find their way to brighten the day of a beloved friend or relative, there are Emails and messages of "Happy Valentine's Day, I love you!" all over the place, and occasionally five bouquets of beautiful flowers show up at the doorstep from the best Daddy in the world (that was my very first bouquet, by the way)!

And with all the flurry, there is still a bit of time to think, and to ponder the meaning of love. Because love is from God and he wants us to enjoy all of the lovely things in this world that he made, and he wants us to love the salvation he gave, because he loved us. It's a ring of love, and today is the day to celebrate that. Happy Valentine's Day!

P.S. Yes, there is chocolate in that bag sitting on the counter!

Good Things

"Great are the works of the Lord; they are pondered by all who delight in them. Glorious and majestic are his deeds, and his righteousness endures forever"(Psalm 111: 2-3). I definitely fall into the "pondering and delighting" category today. There are so many things to be thankful for!

It's not an incredibly sunny day, as it was last week, but I can see dainty streaks of blue sky amid the clouds, and Mt. Jefferson is literally glowing, blanketed as it is by a robe of sun-reflecting snow. There is even a dark, far-away hawk circling above the treetops. It's cold outside, but the fire is so toasty and bright, and the house is warm  because there is a whole, happy family inside of it (except for brother D, at AIT for a few months). I fell asleep last night to the lull of three bright stars winking at me through the window, and woke up early enough to have a very nice quiet time, eat my bagel slowly and get ready for church without hurrying. I enjoyed church a lot too, especially singing time and choir practice (I can't get enough of singing, especially praise and worship type songs). 

I want to make the most of my Sunday afternoon, which means that I need to decide what I want to do, and what I need to do. Mostly I want to walk, because a weekend isn't a real weekend to me if I don't go on at least one long walk. Yesterday I did that in the evening, and by the time I came back it was dark  and cool, and all traces of the yellow-gold sunset were gone, but the stars hadn't made their appearance yet. Maybe this time my walk will be an afternoon ramble through the woods or to that dear little haunt I call "Sunset Hill". Or maybe I'll walk along the vineyard fence or just along the road, or I could hold tryst with the silent, friendly trees in the chestnut grove. There are so many places I would like to wander through today, but I know that I can't see them all! Well, eventually I'll decide, and for now I'll be content to know that all my old favorite places will still be there by the time I come around to them. 

What is poetry?

There are so many various outlooks on life; so many different ways of "writing out" all the thoughts and hopes and dreams of any individual, or several individuals, or a nation. Today, meandering through rows of shelves, each one containing a dizzying array of books, I tasted a sample of bewilderment as I tried to find something that I liked. There was fiction, art, history, fantasy, science, gardening and cooking each in its own segment; the colored picture books and the encyclopedias had their corner of the library. Then there was the poetry section, which I generally lean towards, filled with thick volumes of Robert Frost, Emily Dickenson, Lowell, and a great many other composers whose beloved names I can't seem to recall. There is so much diversity (and a few similarities) between each author's style, that it's hard to find the thread that connects them. Why do they all call themselves poets? Is it because the lines are centered on the page, or because  they have the freedom to cut out letters and capitals or add them in? It can't be that they write of the same things, that there is a set topic for poetry; because there isn't. Some people write about sand and wind and ocean tides, some people focus on character, some on whatever debate they are interested in, and some on the reflections of street lights on rain-washed pavement. So what is poetry then?
I very honestly don't know. It is some deep, inner urge to put into lyrical words a feeling or a thought. A hunger for the ideas to straighten and form into something readable, if not logical, and beautiful even when they're confusing. But to write the meaning of poetry in complete, unbroken detail would be very, very difficult.
I finally checked out a book of collected poems written by James Lowell, and took it home to enjoy throughout the week. When I had settled down to read  some of it, I found a poem describing poetry, which I thought I could insert right at the end of this post. Unfortunately, looking through the book to find it again, I haven't seen it at all. So I'll just have to do without my neat conclusion and end the post here. But I can slide in some other poetry by Lowell (I've really been enjoying this rather old-fashioned set of sonnets). This is the first stanza in The Token, written by Lowell in 1842:

It is a mere wild rosebud,

Quite sallow now, and dry,

Yet there's something wondrous in it,-

Some gleams of days gone by,-

Dear sights and sounds that are to me

The very moons of memory,

And stir my heart's blood far below

It's short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Sometime I'll write down the rest of it, but not right now. Right now I want to sleep.

Twilight

She watched with rapturous delight as the sunset unfolded before her; it was a creamy affair of ivory, primrose and butter yellow tapering off into pristine blue. A flush of dusky crimson painted the sky behind the mountains, and above them plumed a mass of thick purple-grey clouds. They were collecting twilit stories and vivid melodies to whisper in the ears of those who listen and wait for them. Smells of tangy wood smoke and breathing evergreens flavored the air and were carried about by the evening breeze that was haunting the woodland (it always did at that uncanny in between hour). The only sounds were the silvery notes of a thrush singing among the firs, and a chorus of frogs down by the mill pond. And, weaving through the trees, a solitary wind sang whimsically about the filigree wings of dusk.

A Corner of Poetry

Recently, I received a letter from a friend, in which was the beautiful poem "The Snow Arrives After Long Silence". It isn't snowing right now, of course, but the poem speaks so eloquently to the snow-lovers in the world that I just have to write it down here. So here it is, along with a poem that I wrote sometime last year:

The Snow Arrives After Long Silence 
The snow arrives after long silence
from its high home where nothing leaves
tracks or stains or keeps time.
The sky it fell from, pale as oatmeal,
bears up like sheep before shearing.


The cat at my window watches
amazed. So many feathers and no bird!
All day the snow sets its table
with clean linen, putting its house
in order. The hungry deer walk


on the risen loaves of snow.
You can follow the broken hearts
their hooves punch in its crust.
Night after night the big plows rumble
and bale it like dirty laundry


and haul it to the Hudson.
Now I can scan the sky for snow,
and the cool cheek it offers me,
and its body, thinned into petals,
and the still caves where it sleeps.
~Nancy Willard


Dawn Twilight
Mist, draping gracefully
from each quivering bough,
is stirred to life by
the twilight breeze awakening
in a pale opalescent sky.


One distant star,
hovering near the edge
of a crimson horizon,
disappears, melting into
the lightening sky.


Dew, blanketing the hilltops
with cold, sweet drops,
is reflecting the light
and glowing like tiny,
sparkling red orbs.


A robin, joining the stream
in a whimsical melody,
breaks the stillness
of the pristine twilight,


and a ray of sunlight,
dropping through the 
curtain of rising mist,
lets the whole world know
that it is dawn.