March Thirteenth
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The Dead White Oak
The long skelteon of a dead White Oak
lies fallen, empty limbs stretched out
into the swollen river.
Foaming rapids spill across its wooden bones—
melted mountain snows,
the long grey wash of winter rain.
I sit and watch. The strong pulled water
rushes past like years. As always
buried stones, broken trees and pieces
of human things washed up,
the memories of storms.
But I rejoice, this slow praise of decay—
the oak’s long life of leafy days
ebbs away, downstream to the sea.
Blooming maples bow, as if to pray
letting something go in soft south wind.
Their scarlet blossoms litter the little rills
of dampened river sand.
Far across the rapids, on the other shore
a bone-white Sycamore raises sinewed limbs
into the sky.
From such as these, we see life stand strong
in beauty, wait long, sing in all weathers,
bear fruit in season,
fall and die with natural grace.
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–Quilla
What is it?
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What is it—dying in these golden wisps, summer’s first tall hay
mowed and lying loose: long rows scribbled down the green hills,
drifts of dead grass sweet, drying gold in hot June sun?
What is it—whispering this brief, eternal hush of summer noon,
the faintest breezes stir the soft birch leaves, ruffling
their mid-day dreams, yet not enough to wake the metal chimes?
What is it—spreading the great green domes, old oaks
along the ridge, daily opening centuries of limbs and time
and shadows, under the massive white castles of passing clouds?
What is it—dancing the snow-white galaxies of daisies
whirling in the field, bending each white wisp of breeze?
The rooster screaming harshly, tearing the red-gold heart of noon?
What is it—flying with the young hawks’ wings, soaring
the long morning over the green land, teaching them to see
everything that moves: to live, to dive, to seize and kill?
I ask again: What is it—living, flying, dancing, dying
having its holy way, these wild created forms?
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Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty!
The whole earth is full of His glory!
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Reflections on a morning walk
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March 5: In the brisk wind of a March morning, two older women were carefully placing silk flowers on a grave. They were silent and graceful in their motions, not talking, as if what they were doing was the most holy act. As if the dear one whose body was lying in a box deep underground were still present, right there, watching them, gratefully receiving their kindness. When I walked past them on the cemetery lane, they were pleasant, and smiled at the small dog walking with me.
I thought it something of a coincidence that the grave they were decorating was near the very place in the road where I had lain down at 4:00 a.m. last May 18. That was the long night of sharp pain and nightmares from pain pills following extensive surgery on my dislocated shoulder. Unable to sleep, I had gotten up, gotten dressed and walked to the cemetery, about three-fourths of a mile from our home. Still hours until dawn I lay there on my back for an hour or so, gazing up into the setting spring stars. In a mysterious way, the deep sky gave me more relief than the potent medications. I recall bright gold Arcturus of the Herdsman following the Great Lion back down into the earth. That was one of the longer nights of my life. But thankfully now the shoulder has mostly repaired.
This March morning, across the distances the western mountains were turning darker blue in the cloud shadows of approaching rain. I could already smell the pungent scent of rain, blowing out of the southwest across the thawed land. I felt deeply the goodness of it and whispered thanks to the One who gives the rain. We are once again living in a drought year.
At the far corner of the graveyard, I stopped at a sprawling grey thicket of thorns. The first of thousands of Quince blossoms were just beginning to open scarlet petals. This is the same overgrown hedge where Mockingbirds hide their nests each spring, deep in the foliage and thorns. But the leaves would not appear for another month or so. Neither had the noisy Mockingbirds yet arrived.
This was the first longer walk I had taken in the last ten days, since I tore the Achilles tendon in my right ankle. The tendon was feeling tender at the back of each stride, so I sat down on a rickety bench to rest in the last cool rays of hazy sunlight, before the approaching storm. The wind was rising and falling in a grove of great old White Pines growing alongside the road. The small dog curled up below me, underneath the weathered bench.
I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the pale warmth, breathing deeply the rain scented wind, listening to its long sighing through the tall pines. I was there alone. The two women had finished placing their flowers, and had driven quietly away. But I was not alone. I was surrounded by a field of thousands whose eyes were also closed.
The paint is peeling from my weathering life, just as it is from the bench where I was sitting. High up in the pine trees, some of the larger branches have been broken off by winter storms. As I sat and listened, the wind rustled through the thousands of silk and plastic flowers. But I did not feel afraid, nor angry, or sad. Somehow I knew, as deeply as one can know this kind of thing, that although I am only passing through, I am already safe, at home.
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The First Day of March
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The First Day of March
In memory of Jane Kenyon
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Yet another Spring has risen, faithfully
into the old Red Maple limbs.
Its branches burst ten thousand crimson blooms
humming with honey-making bees.
The burgeoning trees, glowing scarlet mist–
oh, if they could know: how their beauty
lifts and carries us toward Radiance,
out of the darkness of our hearts, and the winter land!
The fecund earth is fragrant again, thawed
with growing throngs of verdant light.
The air itself awakes, vibrates bird songs by day
and toad nocturnes, tremoloing from the night pond.
Higher, higher they soar, circling on thermals
rising together in thin blue haze.
In the far meadow, a neighbor standing
by himself, burns a pyre of last year’s leaves.
He stands a long while near the fire, watching smoke
rise into haze and the high, circling hawks.
His frail wife of many years endures her third cancer.
Today she is out walking in the warming light.
Her thin shadow faithfully follows her solitary steps
slowly up the steep and patient hill.
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–Quilla
Note: It’s often quite rewarding to receive various artistic mediums simultaneously, e.g., written (or spoken) words and/or paintings with music, drumbeats and dance. Our marvelous, created bodies and brains can thus receive and intensify and clarify one theme, or the descant harmonies of themes. “ah, but we are fearfully and wonderfully made” (from Psalm 139)–both to express, and to receive.
One of very many musical possibilities when reading the poem above: “The Lass of Glenshee” by Daniel Kobialka on his CD, Celtic Quilt. It has been one of my favorites lately, and has in some ways woven its elegant chords into my being. If only the poem could evoke a few of the emotions living in this piece of music. Thank you, Daniel.
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For Jane Kenyon
Magnolia
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For Jane Kenyon
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Although gone from here
fifteen years now, something live
still thrives within your words—
honesty, the clear light of particulars,
shadows you shared with us
from lifelong halls of sorrow,
resilient winter joy.
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I sit here a hot morning, late July
another doctor’s office, waiting, reading
your poems again. You’re still showing me
how to see luminous beauty in the small,
the daily things—just now,
through the sterile clinic’s high windows,
maple trees are turning silver
as a river, a playful summer breeze.
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You saw through this diaphanous veil
of fleeting, tender, sun-scarred days
tossing stormy nights.
Behind hayfields and paintings,
the tumors, flowers and music,
faces and the snowy light—
You found the love within.
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Ginkgo Leaves
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Ginkgo Leaves
As we were leaving church late that Sunday morning
I saw a tall young Ginkgo tree by the warm brick wall,
the old building. Just unfolding pale new leaves–
scalloped and fluttering, dainty Chinese fans.
Like aspen leaves, rustling the mountain winds
of Sangre de Cristo, the mystic groves near Shao Lin.
Such tender, joyful energy, danced with children’s hands
the playful breeze, whispered lively words of praise.
I broke a sprig of the new leaves and placed them
on my tongue like a wafer, gently crushing them
between my teeth, the pungent essence: sweet
and bitter at once. The taste was Spring itself–
more ancient than stone, younger than rain, and light.
I like to think that such a tree was standing by the opened tomb
that first morning, quaking silver-green, shuddering joy.
If I grow old, I’ll still be reading the ancient Words, tasting them
yet again, listening to the mystery song of wisdom and love
whispering, like soft Spring leaves.
One morning, I’ll be wakened by a warm breeze from the far,
shining mountains of the King.
Walking slowly, joyfully into His light perhaps I’ll even dance
like Ginkgo leaves and children, a playful Spring south-wind.
I will be forever young.
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Ruach 333, by Quilla 