*

*

I was walking a morning road, dark
rain-winds, January trees.
Warm clouds scurfing up from the South again.
Yet this is not a lasting thaw.
Two months from now snow will fall.

Election year, the big talkers are talking
wasting millions every day, proclaiming
change—our deepest desire, and need
for centuries, we keep swallowing
the baited hook:
“I’m the one who’ll deliver you!”
Since childhood storybooks, we keep craving
impossible myths. They help us sleep.
They let us dream. 

This, the first morning Purple Finches
are warbling again, a stream of sweet lyrics
spilling on the soft wind: cadences
sparkling like ice breaking
high in the Maple limbs.
They know the earth is turning back again
to the warm light of a star.

*

*

–Quilla

*

“Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal men, who can not save”   –Psalm 146: 3

“

*

*

22, 752 

–the number of days since
I first entered, just like you
naked and wailing, this beautiful
dangerous and temporary place.

Add another nine months, floating
and bouncing inside Bonnie’s womb
and that brings us to 23,026
since that night in a January room
when I truly began. 

yes, 23,026—(includes 15 for leap years)
as of this windy January night
rain ticking the dark windows
and trickling down, not unlike tears.

Staggering, to think how very much
and yet how little, after all
has lived and loved inside those days.
All the dirty socks, lost words, and kernels
of popcorn that didn’t pop. 

You might wonder why
I did that curious bit of math.
Perhaps the plea: “Lord, teach us
to number our days aright”
had some say in it.
And ”All the days ordained for me
were written in your book”. 

But more likely, we come to realize
the number left is growing smaller
each night we take off our watch.
And we taste more keenly, the honey
and the salt within our days.
We see how quickly, like birds
like summer light, they fly
they fade away.

*

*

–Quilla

*

*

Healing

After her knee surgery
I walk slowly with my mother
and her cane, the gravel path
beside the lake.
The winter sun is already down
into the trees.
Cold wind blows the fountain spray.

Resting on a bench, we talk,
and we are quiet with each other.
The old need to fix and criticize
is gone. Below us, a dead oak limb
drifts into reeds along the bank.

Although we have no feed to give them
the ducks swim in close, gabbing
and preening, as if putting on a show.
Feeding on the muddy bottom
they turn their bottoms to the sky.
We laugh out loud, together.
The brief steam of our laughter floats away,
leaving us a quiet, seasoned joy.

*

*

–Quilla

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We rested by the mountain trail, top of a high south-facing granite cliff. Basking in latewinter sun, sitting out of the wind, the pungent fragrance of fir drifted to us, the ancient smell of sunlit stone. The far horizon flattened out its waves: pale eternal blue like time, like love, the sea. 

Soaring far below us, black wings shining in wide wheels, dives and cartwheels, four ravens cavorted, chortling. Just playing. Not nesting or hunting. For a long time we said nothing, just enjoyed watching them. Something very alive in me wanted to become hollow-boned, sleek black feathers, drop my pack, leap out of my boots and join them wheeling in the winter sun.

*

Those rare elder women who’ve learned to stop talking, and truly listen: their words become fewer, chosen, sweeter and more nourishing, like plums and apricots ripened in a warmer sun. Who want to know what others think, and feel. Or those older men who grow kinder and gentle, wiser in their latter years, and still fly kites with children…… 

….do they not both resemble the ravens? Beings who’ve been made free. The ones who know at last how to listen and to love, let go and laugh in empty air, so full of light. 

*

“Consider the Ravens”   —Jesus

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Three Vultures 

Sitting in the parking lot
winter evening light
I’m watching three vultures, wheeling
slowly, floating silhouettes
far above a tall black pine. 

I walk into the grocery store
and buy some things for supper.
Leaving, at the door I pass by
a woman, once a dear close friend.

Our eyes meet and click, like two shutters.
We almost paused to talk, did not.
That instant, just a second or two
a collage of pictures—years that used to be
rose from the dead,
the fragrance of dead roses.
Our brief greeting, parting glance
said nothing, said everything.

*

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—Quilla

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We’ve Never Been Here Before

The first light sparkles, new crystals
of thick night-frost, the virgin unlived day.

A tiny wren lifts her jubilations
into the vastness of the morning air.
Strokes of winter sun
touch the opened page of ancient Words.

But the Spirit himself
kindles them: strikes a new fire
laughing in the ashes
of our wintered hearts

*

*

–Quilla

*

“Rejoice in every good thing which the LORD your God has given you.”
–Deuteronomy 26: 11

*

“In everything give thanks. For this is the Father’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”  –1 Thessalonians 5: 18

*

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The Nuthatch in Winter

Moist wind rustles the ragged curls
of loose bark, the river birch.
Up and down the shreds, a Nuthatch
scritches for winter insects
and their eggs, protein sleeping
in deep crevices, keeping the colder months.
Leafless branches rattle empty fingers.
Somehow things will find their way to spring. 

A used tea bag I threw out before Christmas
still dangles from a limb.
Thick clouds are lowering from the southwest.
Blue-gray shadows cover the faded land.
We watch the slow approach,
another day of winter rain.
Somehow Spring will find its way to everything. 

*

*

–Quilla

 *

“Rejoice in the LORD always!  Again I will say rejoice!”

*

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In Meditation

Another storm blows in all morning
clouding the January sun.
Even the large trees roar and bend—
a strong east wind
clangs the chimes beneath the eave.

The woodfire snuffles and snaps
old knots, pockets of summer sap.
The iron kettle hisses and steams.
Like our lives, the wisps of smoke
dissipate, go floating down the gray wind.
I sip strong tea, drink the holy Words.

*

*

–Quilla

*

*

The Junco

This morning early, the hard frozen land
resembled a Wyeth scape—stark
raw hills—their faces scraped with a skift
of salty snow, blown across
the mountains before dawn.

But now the wide brushstrokes
of thin white are gone. Except
little drifts the sun kept hiding,
iron-blue shadow places.

One gray Junco is perched
in the naked red blueberry limbs.
She gathers a few rays of warmth
from the hazy sun

Then flits away to the darkening woods.
Two white feathers in her charcoal tail
flash like scissors in the winter light.

*

*

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–Quilla

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*

Billy Collins’ Life Song?
(with great respect to Mr. Collins)

Notice your life. Love
the host of little things
that paint the colors, textures
the very fragrance of the day:
drops of sun, coffee steam,
the long gray shafts of rain. 

Make songs of them.
The pleasure, yes the pain.
Make music of the dear and passing
things you often miss, talking much
always hurrying to the next thing
stumbling on the delicate path
you like to call your day.

*

*

*

–Quilla

*

*

Two Hands

Thank you Father—these two hands
folded together warmly in the winter sun
smoothness, roughness intertwined.
One lighter, more delicate, the other
heavier, weathered more, deep lines.

The hands are hers, and mine.
Not just hands—two lives, woven
into one worn but sturdy cloth,
strands of cool silk and tangled wool
lying together quietly, enfolded
sharing their separate warmth
in shadows of the winter sun.

*

*

–Quilla

*

*

Winter Morning Impressions

Rising, disappearing like spirits
little fragrant clouds, lifting
from my large blue coffee mug
evanescent, yet so pungent
and real, somehow make me feel
I too have been drawn in
to an alluring commercial
for fresh-roast coffee beans.

And the gentle open hands
of the winter cactus:
emerald fans of living chlorophyll
glowing in that frosted light.

Their Christmas blossoms fallen now
somehow I’m remembering
ancient Eden gardens, flowering
beside warm streams.

*

*

–Quilla

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Starlight and Old Windchimes

Waiting ten minutes—the pizza to cook
I walk into the freezing darkness,
watch the timeless winter stars.

Centuries, this luminescence
radiates through blackest space,
now sparkles in the empty trees.

A faint breeze stirs, it wakes
the old bamboo chimes.
They mutter soft, like cold starlight.

The same crisp air moves the tall bamboo:
Thin leaves whisper something to Orion
softly, like the old wood-chimes.

*

*

–Quilla

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A Gift

The rare January thunderstorm
blusters in—raw wind, cold shadows
darken the thawed fields.

Naked limbs of trees
toss and clatter, grieving
as if wishing they had leaves.

My eyes are mesmerized,
the scudding turbulent skies, a sea
of clouds churning great black ships.

Suddenly, the very nimbus I am watching
right there–a jagged wire of light
strips the darkness, tears it open—

pure electric fire, electrocuting faster
more fierce than any word, its sight
shuts my eyes, a primal fear

and disappears. Silence. . . .then the crash
that cracks the fragile dome of air
to bits, and hits the hollowed ground:

horrific boom, the hallowed bomb
of war. A mush of rain and gusty hailstones
strafes the soft surrendered land.

Like all storms, it’s quickly done.
Now the low sun peeps out to look, and flings
a gleaming fire of colors to the east.

*

*

–Quilla

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*

After Heavy Rains, the Winter Moon

Gently the Spirit wakes me from my dreams.
The house is asleep. Finally the rains have stopped.
A mild winter night, I sit by an open window.
A soft moonlight shape lies silent on the floor.

Dark hemlock trees are standing very still
out in the bright moon-mist.
Down the hill the small stream rushes
full of winter rain.

A half mile away, the river roars
down dark gorges toward the sea.
A long train rolls upriver slowly
rumbling through the moonlit night.

*

*

*

–Quilla

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*

I woke to gusts of wind roaring in the large trees outside in the predawn dark. Hard rain was lashing the south windows.  Mostly a mild winter so far, the earth is yet soft, soaked with recent rains, rivers are running full. With all the snow the last two winters, I don’t hear anyone complaining. The warm and turbulent weather has created some dramatic skies, even rainbows in January. But winter is far from over. . . 

Later, putting on water for tea I stood at the kitchen sink, looking out across the ragged garden and rainy woods, steep mountain pastures fading into mist. Big pines soughed in strong wind like heavy surf, long gusts blown inland from the Gulf. The sky was low, roily with clouds scudding just a few hundred feet above the pastured turf.   

Suddenly the unexpected: the sun found a small opening in the storm.  A shaft of light broke through, instantly glittering everything. Rain kept falling, a billion free diamonds of skywater and blown sunlight. Each bare twig and pine needle, every weed stem, briar thorn and fencewire, thicket, vine and orchard tree was transformed with shining drops of watery light.  In those delicate moments of sun, everything was instantly remade, glistening and reborn, fresh-blown molten rainbow glass. Such crystal beauty sparkled with the glory, the innocence of fresh, childlike vision. The world was new, unbroken. If only a few quicksilver minutes of radiance, I was given a glimpse. . . 

Squinting into the glassy light, my eyes were scanning the shining fields and caught a shadow-shape not usually there (at least not in daylight).  Just to the left of the two-hundred-year-old white oak, a large coyote was crouched among clumps of dead grass. He was perfectly camouflaged, colored smoke and straw. The bright morning sunlight glowed in his rich gold throat fur. I quickly got my binoculars and focused. His head was up and looking keenly about, ears erect, listening for scant movements of field mice scittering in the winter grass. Normally, two donkeys kept coyotes out of the fields, but the windy rain had driven the livestock down the hill into the barn. These wild members of the dog clan are resilient survivors, always sharply aware of their surroundings. They didn’t think anyone was watching.

Very slowly, I opened the door and stepped onto the shaded porch, to get a better view. About a hundred yards away, the coyote immediately saw me and stood up, ready to bolt and run.  I stood very still, tense moments watching him watching me. Finally, not perceiving me a threat, he relaxed and stretched, shook the rain from his thick fur, and yawned.  Then he sauntered slowly down the hillside, into a grove of walnut trees along the creek. 

*

*

–Quilla

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Four Wild Geese

It looks like I’d get used to this…
this frequent parting, saying good-bye
again to one or the other of our daughters—

one last hug, some caring words, an enduring look
to last like a photograph—for months, a year, or ever.
In parting, we know we’re never sure.

I put on coffee for your long ride
back to school.  Just as I’m checking
the oil in the car, with my head under the hood

I hear a wild sweet greeting, a yelp above me
in the cloudy winter morning light:
four Canada geese, flying low

over our house. I hear the whistling
of their quivering wings, winging quickly
from the river to the lake in town.

Long low rafts of stratus roll above us
from the west. The last scrap of snow has melted.
You’ll be driving into mountain rain.

Finally the dark blue Crown Vic disappears
into the grey trees.  You don’t see my right hand, reaching
to you, a father’s blessing, letting go.

The little dog and I walk back inside.
The sharp sting of coffee steam
lingers in the empty rooms. 

Melancholy Uilleann pipes, Enya’s
“Sun in the Stream” is weeping softly—
the way things come to us, and how they go.

*

*

–Quilla

*

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Frozen cornstalk fields:

shards of ancient pottery 

long shadows

*

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Frozen birdbath

an inch of snowdust 

scratched with bird tracks

*

*

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Coal

*

Three million summers

–a deep fern forest

warms our winter night 

*

*

*

*

*

Fierce winter wind

old oaks groan,

remembering 

*

*

*

*

*

Making pancakes

and listening:  no small thing

to be a father 

*

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How the cold sun

glitters, each needle shines

the great somber pines

*

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Cold wind, winter sun 

tall black pines, tossing

shadows on the page

*

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snow storm blows in:

rows of stones and buried bones

vanish, into white

*

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Wrinkled hands

folded, winter dusk

snow stings the windows

*

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Dawn lit the bare trees

a few moments of gold,

then snowclouds gathered

*

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Old devotion book—

once more, I open it

to the first page

*

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*       *      *

. . . a broken string of tall December stars
sparkles through the breaking clouds.
Living black silhouettes of old poplars 
are still dripping with rain:
soft stepping sounds
on the forest floor at night,
like some ancient peaceful Being
larger than sky, smaller than raindrop
who sees, who understands everything
walking with us through the dark.

*

*

–Quilla

*

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*

For Margaret Welch
(A dear Snowbird Cherokee)

These mornings, early winter
heavy frost sparkling, fallen
all night from the northern stars

I sit by burning wood, and watch
the blue smoke of morning
slowly curl away.
In the frozen meadows, horses
are standing in the late December sun.
Even at this distance, I see the steam
of their breath, their strong brown backs.

Yesterday, eight flights of stairs
at St. Joseph’s climbed me up
to your stuffy little room,
the almost empty shell of life
that’s left of you.
Grandchildren gathered around your bed,
and I —the only white man there.

I brought you some love, a little money
for the children, and left
a few words of Life—
a love for you that will not die.
I looked out the window, thinking
your long and giving life,
these little ones you leave behind.

Suddenly I felt the withering power
of the grey winter sky.

*

*

*

–Quilla

“I tell you the truth, he who believes in me has everlasting life.
I am the living Bread that comes down from heaven.
If anyone eats of this Bread, he will live forever.”     –Jesus    (John Chapter 6)

*

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Cardinal alights

on a frozen branch:

flakes of frost sift down

*

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Pastures of blue frost

horses stand, warming themselves

winter morning sun

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Long rows of grey stones

and silk poinsettias,

moon in a bare tree

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 Indian woman, dying—

grandchildren around her bed,

and I.  The winter sky….

*

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Morning dreams vanish—

a slight dusting of night snow

in the winter trees

*

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 Spilled in years past—

morning tea, dried like faded ink

on the winter page

*

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Late December sun

sparkles the skift of morning snow:

one Wren lifts his joy

*

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Talking with my daughter

on the phone:  a crescent moon

shining through snowclouds

*

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Across the hard frost

and silence: someone hammering

and the sound of crows

*

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Indian flute song

soft and low:  morning sun

lights the winter land

*

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December afternoon

long shadows on the hillsides

cries of Coyotes

*

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*

Alone now, a quiet winter morning room. William Ackerman’s guitar deftly strums ‘The Last Day at the Beach’—in those chords I hear the sound of footprints softly washing away, the thirsty little waves always lapping at the watery edge of things. I strike a match to yesterday’s colorful gift-wrapping stoked in the stove. The Christmas paper fire roars and glows like burning rainbows.

An hour before dawn I woke to quickly dress and go downstairs and kiss good-bye, to hug and pray for my daughter and son-in-law, to send them on their way again, a hundred and five feet per second north on the 81, nine hundred miles. They were with us five short days.

Five days: a hundred-some-odd hours, thousands of words and smiles, sharing the gifts of ourselves—these dear moments now enter what we call ‘the past’, the process of becoming  compressed into a rich but thin space in our minds. It is like one page of photographs in a much larger album, long shelves of large dusty albums in an ancient cathedral library. Sometimes we open the pages, fondly recall the images, the names and faint voices of those who are gone from us—even our earlier selves.

Now they are gone, I walk into their empty room, stand for a few moments, feeling the absence.

*

O Father, how you have made us! And the whole Universe!  —minuscule wands of light, galaxies spinning eons like fireflies through this mesh of night, from something and toward something, indeed Someone:  infinitely brighter and more intimate than hosts of stars, the wastes of time, the cryptic rhyme of tides.

Surely the pathos of our footprints on this brief shore is precious to You. You watch us leave our gifts, our very selves behind us, how we grieve each love we’ve lost. Everything we’ve held dear both follows and precedes us, like our meager faith and deeds. All these are little lamps flickering before us into the vast dark.  We walk in shadows cast by the mystery of perfect Love, unfathomable invisible Light.

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“Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully, just as I am fully known.”   1 Corinthians chapter 13, verse 12.

The naked bony hills of morning
are brushed with ice—long strokes in the night
from winter stars, sparkling blue.

I woke before the frozen dawn.
The waning Snow Moon
was walking silently through leafless trees.
Saturn and Spica followed, shy maidens
glimmering thin candles. 

Charcoal-colored Juncos have flown down to us
again, from highest summer mountaintops
to spend the winter near our door.
They peck for seeds, the heavy frost.

The seasoned sticks of White Oak snap
and chuckle in the stove, making flames—
long-forgotten suns released.
Our chimney spins long threads of smoke, lost
in the crystal stillness.
They weave away, into the patchwork quilt
of Christmases past.

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Waking

It’s being more aware
each day you’re walking closer
to that final door—
the one that opens into something
completely new, beyond
this hall of many doors.

Already that closed room
casts a strange and gentle light
on what we call the “little” things—
flashes of beauty go unnoticed,
scraps of things we leave behind:

This morning, I was putting on water
for tea, when a papery onion skin, fallen
from last night’s festive cooking
scratched the drafty kitchen floor;

Later, I look up from the scriptures
to see the room spinning splinters
of rainbow—a glass snowflake prism
hanging just beyond the window
in bright December sunlight—
pirouetting with the winter wind.

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–Quilla

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Soft December Rain
for Natallie 

Exams over and done, she’s home
for the holidays. First morning back
in her own bed, sleeping late,
soft December rain is falling on the roof.
Her mom is still asleep upstairs.
The little dog lies curled in the basket
by the stove, twitching in her dream.
I sit in the den reading, sipping black tea,
a thankful father looking back, and out
beyond the rain, the winter trees. 

Through large window-doors I watch
the pebbles of water falling, dancing
little puddles, mirrored bits of sky.
The grove of birches glistens droplets,
moments drop from empty limbs.

Behind them, the tall and somber pines
share my quiet morning joy,
darkened branches lowered
dripping silver needles
soft December rain.

After all the needless hurry
how utterly peaceful, giving and still
this quiet morning listening—knowing
the Father’s heart of love is beating
at the center of everything. 

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–Quilla

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Winter garden

neglected stone buddha, lying

face-down in dead weeds

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Hostas in December

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River reflection

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Near McKinney Gap, NC

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Fountain Spray

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December sky

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Sycamore bark

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“And the Light shines in the darkness…..”

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Sycamore and Pines in December

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Another door into Narnia?

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Crepe Myrtles, December

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December Morning

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Beached for the winter

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Farrah and her Mom, devotions together, Daytona, December 07

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Behold!

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Epiphany

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December night

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Gable on Episcopal Chapel, Charlotte St., Asheville NC

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Daytona after Christmas

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Greek Orthodox Chapel

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Leaving

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View from our back porch

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Ready for Snow

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Closeup, 400 year old Cannon, Castillo de San Marcos

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Winter Fields

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Somewhere, on down the line….

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December dawn

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Words of Life

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Down in the Orchard

After all the fruit had fallen, and the last
rotten windfall pears were scavenged
by night-ranging coyotes,
came a few gold weeks of flaming leaves.
Wild October mosaics of yellows and scarlets,
unnamed shades of sun-paint, flickering.
Those days were warm with stained-glass light.

Now this mid-December morning chill:
a long low shawl of charcoal stratus
shadows the barren orchard violet-grey.
Beneath the tangled apple boughs
sprawl mats of dead straw-grass,
the black and broken stems of summer weeds.

The fields lie down, drab with cold stillness.
It’s an old, quiet color—like roses, frozen grey
that shade of winter doves, silent now
huddled together on bare branches
waiting for snow.

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–Quilla

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African Christmas Art

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It’s Good that We Have Christmas

Augh! What a polluted river of deceits
and shallow vanities flow
from the deep and fractured vessel
of man’s clay heart, fashioned
by the Potter’s Spirit, to carry
and pour the very springs of God.

A sharp wind blows.
I sit in cold winter sunlight
listening to crows. 

It’s good there is a winter Star
above, within—the bright candle
of Words, these bitter frozen nights.
One who keeps His fire of love
burning always, our most secret hearth.

It’s good that we have Christmas.

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–Quilla

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Fifth Night of Hannukah

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From my Nature Journal:    ‘December, and Winter Closes In…’       

Tonight, just after sunset strong winds are blustering down our valleys from the northern mountains, the high Unaka range. The thermometer’s red line has dropped over twenty degrees in a few hours. Empty trees roar with night wind. Squalls of rain have quickly changed to heavy gusts of blowing snow. Winter is closing in.

First the green, and then the golden days took down their pretty things, and left. Suddenly the blue mouth of winter is howling at our doors. Reveling in its power, both the ‘inner child’ and the older one living in me thrill to start a new fire in Efel, our cast-iron Belgian stove. Twenty four winters now, I’ve fed her at least two cords of seasoned hardwood each year. But these last two winters, she’s gotten hungrier. In return, she keeps us warm, even during power outages, simmers our winter soups and stews, cups of evening tea. Late in the long nights, her fluttering flames and falling embers talk soft words of the summer sun. The stored heat of many seasons is released in one night from the burning wood. Few things kindle our primal connections to the ancient past more keenly than wood fire warming our homes on cold nights, the soft lights dancing on our dark walls. Something deep in us remembers far more than we can recall.

Once again winter is closing in on our high country like a pack of ghost wolves. Already the mountains have been coated white with early storms. Now we wait the harder cold, the deeper snows.  As Earth spins closer to the Solstice—the day with the shortest daylight, usually December twenty first or second—the arc of the sun drops a bit lower each afternoon. The ragged purple-grey mountains move long shadows across the stubbled fields. Up and down the backroads from Indian Creek to Elk Shoals, threads of woodsmoke rise from chimneys into the pale, slanted light.

In colder months the sleeping land keeps a quiet serenity. All the summer birds have flown from the forests. Farm work in the fields is done. Dark comes early, nights are long. This winter, Venus gleams low in the west after sunset, Jupiter sparkles high in the east.

Just this week we’ve noticed that Juncos have returned to our feeders. These small charcoal-colored birds are often called “Snowbirds”. A scissor of white flashes in their sooty tailfeathers. Juncos don’t migrate long distances. Winging down to the valleys for winter, they return to the highest ridge tops to nest for the summer. One jingling note is their mating song, held long in the thin air, the ringing of a tiny glass bell.
In recent weeks I’ve also been hearing the sweet music of my favorite winter visitor, the shy Whitethroat Sparrow. Nesting far to the north, they winter here. I see them flitting to the feeder from wine-red tangles of honeysuckle and briars along the garden’s edge. Their song is a lilting dream of seven to twelve notes, with the wistful sense of remembered joy.

Some of my favorite December memories rise from those years we took our two daughters, my mother and father, and went looking for a fresh-cut Yancey Christmas tree. The best part was walking the hillside rows of live Fraser Firs together with my girls, choosing just the right tree to take home. Sometimes snowflakes were spinning out of the dark north, ravens squawking high above on the gray wind.  I realized even then how quickly it all was passing; I cherished the excited beauty in my daughters’ cold faces, their little-girl chatter and laughter, my father’s quiet joy in all of us. We piled into the Trooper with the tree tied to the roof, and went into town for plates of good hot mountain food. Winter was closing in. But we were together. It was Christmas. 

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–Quilla
Published in the Yancey Journal and Common Times

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Splinters of Winter Light

December morning, my footsteps crunch
the crystalled grass.
Looking up through frozen birches, and beyond
my arms lift their hands: palms, thin fingers
stretch with praise to the winter sun
splintering rays through icy limbs.
I give my self afresh—to the Risen One.

The whole domed canvas of wide sky
shines winter blue, brushed white strokes
of high cirrus: windy tails of ghost-horses
like wisps of spirit running, slow motion
across the empty skies of time.

One Chickadee arrives, thirsty
and perturbed at the frozen pool.
She pecks the plate of ice
till it breaks open, just a bit.
She sips and sings, and flies away.

In the far meadow two deer
are standing in the open
a moment sculpted, like statues.
A poise of grace and fear
their blue shadows stretch out long and thin
down the frosted hill.
Something frightens them. They bound off,
disappear in the shadowed wood.

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–Quilla

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Passage

For two hours tonight with kindred souls
we learn, talk about God: remember
his presence with us down the years,
his inscrutable, faithful ways with men.
We say goodnight to everyone,
this, the last night of November.

We walk out into the dark,
the hard cold of the city.
So much pain we do not know.
Sharp black wind cuts our faces.
A thin white sickle of winter moon
hangs above the mountain rim.

 The car is cold. I kiss the happiness
glistening your  face, still beautiful
three decades with me.
Back home, I bring in enough wood
to last the long night’s fire.

We curl up in the darkness, together,
knowing heavy frost is falling
upon our roof, upon our lives.
Knowing, no matter what
we are perfectly known and loved.
Through the black window, loom
large black trees, sparkling
blue lights of winter stars.

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–Quilla

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‘Remains of the Day’

Now the leaves are down
the dim November sun reveals
—high up, in hickory limbs—
a large Hornet’s nest, spun
of hard wild paper, bleached grey
and fastened tough
against the autumn sky.
It hangs there somewhat ominous
oval and vigilant, a large grey owl
fallen asleep.

The cool November sun glistens
a few remaining threads of silk:
woven silver webs, spun in warmer days
and yet unfrozen nights.
Tattered remnants shimmer in the wind. 

The hardy rose bush, a dozen or so
folded buds, unfolding soft white blossoms
stopped—burned by hard blue frost.
Now they wither— brown dried paper,
crumpled pages of a summer love letter
wadded up, never sent.

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–Quilla

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This Wooded Place

This wooded place was meadows, once.
Fallen mossy fences scribble
the broken lines and sentences—
a windblown script, lost chapters
of that forgotten story.

Now a copse of Black Birches
and winter fern takes back the space
of sloping earth and mountain air
so naturally, it seems
it was always theirs to take.

An older wood, much older—
tall Red Oaks, mostly, looms above
the supple Birches, like elders
in a country church. 

Bright pastures flourished here.
Or highland swales of meadow hay?
Now, November trees and shadows.
Who was it once, split and nailed these
rails, all crusted grey with lichens?

–Quilla

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