Words: The Erratic

tear

wind

stone 

stamp

 

The Erratic

Stamp the clay off your shoes!

Stand on the stone on the hill

where once the old pine stood.

This is holy ground, this boulder,

this plough-breaker. Remember

the ice that brought it here,

remember the long melt. You stand

on a rise at the bottom of the sea.

The clay on the bottom of your shoes

settled in those depths.

Remember the glacial wind.

Let the wind today purify

your winter skin. Let tears

open your eyes to the tears

in the ground. 

ODDNESS AGAIN

ODDNESS AGAIN  

  ~That Bluebird Fair is back

Oh, how the edges are odd! 

Bread from white flour,

coffee carefully measured.

Opera in the afternoons.

Friends on the screen.

Walking on the other side.

Stop, says the sage, and I stop

in the driveway when the dog

stops to pee. Before sunrise:

a robin is singing, a cardinal,

a dove. Look: the bare trees

against a gray sky. The house

with her red roof, smoke rising

from the chimney, a light

shining in the kitchen window.

 

(Brother David Steindl-Rast recommends practicing “Stop. Look. Go” as a way of remembering to be grateful.)

REPORT: Let this be the Magic

REPORT

Let this be the Magic.

~Bluebird Fairy, February 21

 

This day, this cold winter morning,

this orange sunrise above snow

through bare-branched trees,

this cardinal singing despite

the evidence, this neighbor

leaving for her job in the hospital,

this neighbor driving off 

to build someone a house.

 

Let this be it:

coming in with the dog from the cold,

my warm kitchen,

the coffee ready and fragrant,

my blue cup, the brass lamp

on my desk, the collage

my grandson made, the pottery

fish I made to prove I can still

learn, the card from Sharon

acknowledging our mutual

crankiness. Do you

 

know anything better?

Is there a fairy godmother

or or genie in a jar

or angel or god who could

add anything to this?

HUNTER

HUNTER

 

 

Life has given me a yellow dog

who noses the ground.

Shall we go hunting? I ask her, 

and she laughs.

 

She eagers her way down the drive,

shows me where deer trailed 

into the woods, where rabbits

skittered into brambles. 

 

She raises her head

to catch something in the air—

a whiff of owl? A drift of horse 

from the neighbor’s barn?

Fox, fisher, coyote, stray cat? 

There is so much out there

to track and find.

 

Hunter ascends at dawn, 

her crescent no longer

the crown of youth but

the mark of crone. 

 

She glows in the cold sky

above the house where

my husband still sleeps.

Her light is enough to see by,

and what shall I see?

There is so much out here

to track and find.

WHERE ARE THE OWLS?

WHERE ARE THE OWLS?

 

Last winter, they surrounded me, circled

my head, sat on the bedposts, 

 

nested in the mailbox, ate all the onions 

in my garden. They sang through my sleep,

 

their sweet trillings and warblings

coloring my dreams.  I wore their cast-off 

 

feathers in my hair, lined my boots

with their fur. Where are they now?

 

Did the angel who keeps the flower bed

decide I’d had them long enough?

 

Oh, send me an owl! 

Just one would do—

 

one dark-eyed barred owl

to sit in the ash tree across the way,

 

just one owl in the ash tree.

Please make everything all right again.

 

WINTER DEER

WINTER DEER

Through the trees they came

at twilight or at dawn,

bowing their graceful heads

beneath the snowy branches.

They left their heart-prints

along the drive awhile, 

crossed then into the pines.

Three doe with this spring’s young.

Every year I’ve seen them,

nine of them. The immortal

deer at the border of what

we think is ours, what has

always been theirs.