GIFTS

 

This is what the living do:

we wake up each morning to the day,
grateful for the waking,

our beds a time capsule,

carrying us through years

of dreams and memories.

I closed my eyes, in bliss, at forty,
on the shoes of Clayoquot Sound.

When I opened them this morning,

incomprehensibly, I am seventy-six,
- here, once again,
and still -
in my heart's home.
The greatest gift of all.

I put out seed for the morning sparrows,

watch them hopping, while I make

my cup of tea, because

this is what the living do; we have

our rituals, our small comforts,

our ways of coping, our day after day

of sameness, moving us inexorably

to an unknown day up ahead.

Meanwhile, we remember

to cherish these small blessings,

this glorious ordinary, more special

than we know.

I remember

to be grateful for the gifts.

Yesterday I carried my brown bag

of groceries home from the CoOp.

The sun was so warm; two smiling friends

walked towards me. We stopped,

a careful ten feet apart, and chatted,
because the virus is still here,
wary and mutated.

We talked about our hair, which is long
and needed cutting even before

the virus. We stood there,

laughing in the sun, hands poking at our heads,

glad to have seen and spoken with other humans

on this sunny warm morning

in Clayoquot Sound.

The waves were big yesterday; the surfers

were happy. I walked to the big log and sat,

watched the breakers come rolling in,

felt my heart expand with the prayer I recite

every time I am there: thank you, thank you,

thank you, for this: for the gift of living here,

twice given, for the beauty,

for the many gifts I have been given.

This is what the living do: we remember.

On this beach, I once walked for miles and years

with an exuberant, big black wolf.

And now I live alone.

I visit the sea. I am still living,

less exuberantly, but no less gratefully.

I remember him.

I remember it all.

for  Ingrid at dVerse where the topic is gifts. I have been given so many, all my life. I am aging ever so gratefully. I adapted this poem from one written earlier during covid. But some of us seniors are still having to be careful, as the mutations are still about, and we are vulnerable.

Light

 

A small white plant burst forth 

this January, in the yard.

How did it sprout, the ground

so cold and hard?

My heart lifts at

the coming of the light,

lasting a little longer

night by night. 

Six small round candles

line our footsteps at the beach.

We walk between,

           all beauty within reach.          

Earth's promise is renewed

year after year,

Mother Earth, shining her
gift of
hope and beauty
crystal clear.

***

Each evening, now, there are
a few extra minutes before
the darkness dims our sight,
as the planet turns itself,
once more
towards the light.

My heart lifts to meet it,
caught in gratitude
and pain,
as the age-old miracle
unfolds itself again:

Mother Earth's winter tears,

watered the earth where
we will bring
the seeds to grow
another garden
during one more
beautiful spring.

A small offering for earthweal : Fertile and Pure: a Candlemas Harrow. The coming of the light lifts my heart every year. Each year I am blown away by the miracle of the earth coming to life again.

Armadillo Dreams

 

I don't know. It's absurd. I just don't know

what to think anymore. Am as confused

as an armadillo in a tobacco store, dubious,

but willing to wait and see if the situation

might actually be genius.

There's a sweet, sad song on the jukebox,

that I used to sing when I thought

one day I'd be a superstar. But heavy boots

trampled all over my dreams, so now I

listen for the nightbird's call, for that

lonely train whistle at two a.m.

I don't really dream at all any more.

for Shay's Word List. I used ten of the words, and this just wrote itself. Cool list, Shay.

Tree People

Forests are peopled with trees.

From babies to wise old Grandfather Cedar,

all are in a state of

Becoming, Growing, Enduring.

Much like us.

Listen to the song of this old tree,

and he will teach you

how to live.

He will whisper to you

of roots and tree-tops, earth and sky,

and of your inter-connection

to All That Is.

He will tell you the secret

of how to live in harmony

with the natural world,

with respect, nurturing life,

doing no harm.

Breathing out, breathing in.

Being Peace.

Like a tree.

When the west wind croons

through his branches

and the riversong joins in,

listen to their song

and remember:

We are air.

We are water.

We are trees.

for earthweal's open link. A poem from 2016.

Grandma, Passing Through

Floss and Wilf Marr

She was larger than life,

when I was four:

twinkling eyes, a sense of humor,

lots of cackles.

She and Big Boy, the cat,

had a running game over

whether or not he'd make it

out the screen door

before she let it fly.

He would calculate the distance warily:

the lovely scent of the outdoors,

the pressure on his bladder,

but Her, standing holding the door

open invitingly.

Would he make it through this time?

Was it worth it?

How badly did he really

need to pee?

She enjoyed this game

much more than the cat did.

In the morning I'd wake to the slap

of water hitting the vines

on the side of the house,

as Grandma cooled things down

against the heat of the day.

Her yard was always abloom:

sweet pea and mint,

forsythia and mimosa,

and roses, twining the arched trellis

over the front gate,

where I'd hang, late afternoons,

swinging back and forth,

waiting for my parents

to pick me up

after work.

Late morning, as it was getting hot,
she'd lower the awnings

like sleepy eyelids

over the two front windows.

At naptime, she'd lie down beside me,

her warm, comforting, womanly body

lulling me off to sleep in safety.

No screams or crashes ever woke me

from sleep at grandma's house.

Her kitchen clock ticked

loudly and peacefully

on the kitchen shelf.

I could hear it in the back room,

where we'd sit, listening to

the crack and rumble

of the thunderstorms

Grandma loved in summer,

waiting for the metallic scent

just before the rains

hit the parched earth.

We "watched the fairies"

dancing in the fireplace

on quiet winter afternoons.

She was all I knew of stability.
She showed me, by living it,

that life could be normal, routine,

safe, peaceful.
I searched for a life like hers
through my growing years,
until I claimed solitude,
and found it.

She could be stern

I was more afraid of her displeasure

than I was of God's.

She said she had "magic glasses,"

that she could see me when I was at home,

and I believed.

She told me of a perfect little girl called Vivian,

who had wonderful manners

and never did one thing wrong.
"Vivian would never do that!"

All us grandkids hated Vivian.

She chortled with delight,

walking home from afternoon tea,

at how I'd said "Haaaaaah, Miss Hicks?"

when I didnt understand her question.

"Haaaaaaaah, Miss Hicks???"

my grandma teased,

fairly chomping with pleasure,

while I blushed and bridled.

When my Grandma was old,

in extended care,

I repaid her for all the hours

she gave to me as a child.

"I'm still here,"

she'd say disgustedly,

as I popped my head

around the door.
"I'm just

too damned healthy!"

We'd sit under the trees,

or at the window

watching the sunset.

I sat with her as she lay dying,

that long week.

Bending over, I whispered into her ear,

"Thanks for all the love, Grandma"

and watched a single tear

run silently down her cheek.

At the funeral, we played her favorite

"Galway Bay" at the end,

and my mom broke down.

On the bus going home,

I was thinking of Grandma

and all the years,

when the notes of Galway Bay

tinkled through my brain,

from left to right, and away.
I wasn't thinking of the tune;
it just arrived, in one side
and out the other.

Instantly, I said, "Hi Grandma,

I love you,"

as the notes exited my brain,

for I knew that it was Grandma

passing through.

for Sarah at dVerse, where the topic is grandmothers. Mine meant the world to me. She actually saved my life when I was a child, by showing me there was another life than the one I was living.

Never Give Up

I am so sad and everything is beautiful.

- from "Adrift" by Mark Nepo 

At the shore, the sun shines silver on
the scudding clouds, the island, the tombolo,

the shining water. My heart lifts

at the beauty of this world I walk through,
breathing wonder.

In the same moment, thinking of the suffering going on

across the world, I ache with grief at how we are

destroying our beautiful garden; at how cruelly

we are treating the non-human beings who share

this planet; at the hatred and division we are showing

our fellow earthlings.

This is how joy and grief co-exist in the lives

of humans who have lived this long. We know, now,

how we are meant to be living. We understand

how far we are falling short.

Yesterday I smiled at a heron perched on top

of the Coast Guard tower, her wings huddled

around her ears, as she surveyed the busy harbour,

the gentle rounded slopes of Meares.

She could see far. When I look out,

across the country, across the ocean and the planet,

I see a mix of peaceful valleys, flooding lowlands,

starving wild ones, breathtaking mountains,

devastated oil fields. Farther away, bombs are

pounding villages into rubble, and fascism is rising

across the globe. 

Yet this morning dawned

as beautiful as ever, the stars winking out,
the steady sun rising behind the hills

at Rosie Bay. Walking out onto

the sandy beach, one can imagine a world

whose heart beats in harmony, where gardens

flourish and everyone is fed. 

The pain exists between the vision

and the heartbreaking reality.

Yet, because of the beauty, 
the incredible courage, of Mother Earth
and every living thing
that only wants to live,

we can never give up,

never give up. We can
never give up.

Shared at earthweal's open link.

Not Alone

 

Yesterday morning there was a flock of crows

on the lawn, looking like a priest convention.

What did they find to eat, at the tail end of winter?

I wondered.

It is still dark at 8 a.m., and not one light is on

in the condo across the street.

We take our wakings slow
this time of year.

The white blooming plant in the garden 

has opened all of its buds. "Pretty, pretty!"

I whisper, as I pass. It preens, and 

stands up taller.

The local dogs know I carry treats.

My day is made when I can offer one,

and pat a humble furry head, whose eyes

will shine in greeting next time
we meet.

One midnight, outside my trailer,

I found myself not two feet from 

half a dozen deer. Their soft eyes looked

at me. They didn't startle, or move off.

I gazed back, in wonder.

That same winter, again in the middle

of the night, I saw a fat black bear 

sitting on my sister's porch across the street,

eating apples from a wooden box.

He looked at me as I shone my flashlight

at him, reached down, plucked another apple.

During a terrible sleeting winter storm,

I heard him howling his cold and his distress

and wished I could take him a blanket,

find him shelter.

My heart rests among the beasts.
I am companioned by the critters 

- and the forest, the wild shore,

and the ever-changing sky.
Because of them
I know I'm not alone.

From Wild Writing - Day One. Inspired by the poem "How We Are Not Alone" by Maya Stein.