Flying

Wings flocking,
A storm of white.
Too orderly for raucous gulls –
Oh, but there are thousands!
Wave upon wave,
Landing,
Threads sewn on the sky.
Tangled skein on the grass.
Black wingtips,
So big, even from my distant car window.
Snow geese.
Snow geese!
A sight I’d seen only in picture books.
Until now.
They are bringing the snow I will drive through this afternoon,
The first of the season.
Snow geese.
Flying South, winging in cold.
Like my baby’s first tiny handprint later,
Home safe in the driveway,
Her first touch of snow.
I too shiver in wonder.

Autumnal haiku duo

Slender birch neck. Clear
sky above, a scarf of leaves
below. Cold fingers.

Warm colours, muffled
sounds. Outside is slowing down.
Adagio Fall.

The return of words

There’s poetry in my head again, and the hum of a lullaby looping.
The sun peeks out at me through these snowy days, flirting, whispering “soon, soon“.
Melancholy shifts over me, a loose cloak, never quite settling, never quite lifting. But the hum, incessant, pulls me along to its rhythm. Relentlessly warm and comforting.
Hibou eats, and sleeps, and peers at me in wonder. I do the same. She finds peace in my heartbeat, I in her breath. We orbit each other, learning, and relearnng, this dance.
I rediscover the sound of quiet. The shape of the middle of the night. The hope of a newly opened blind, calling out to the day to begin, inviting light.
The poetry comes in fragments, still, single phrases flitting briefly by. But I hear their passing, I feel their wings brush my cheek.
Soon.

Cottage Weekend Trio

Mind: be still.
Be quiet, and listen.
It is the waves’ turn to speak.
The raindrops are doing a tapdance, in time with the treetops.
Heart: slow.
Let the wind set your beat tonight.
The licorice-checkered tablecloth begs for a crossword puzzle.

—

The tightly wound ball of yarn that I am
is starting to slowly unravel.
There are still knots in the line,
but the string is straightening,
loosening.
I see the kite tail that I could be,
flying high above the trees,
fierce,
strong,
a purposeful weight.
A night’s sleep and a day’s restfulness
is all it took.
If tonight’s sleep could be longer,
less interrupted by nightmares,
and tomorrow’s day even lazier,
I’d get closer,
and closer,
to still.
To strength.
To unknotting.

—

What a blessing it is to have quiet.
A prolonged period of time listening only to my own breath,
trees swaying,
birds greeting the morning.
What a gift it is to know that there is nothing I must do with my time.
To have a day that does not need to be filled.
It can just be.
It can just whisper to me.

Backyard

Sitting alone outside in the darkening twilight,
the evening warmer than my tea,
the glow of my son’s nightlight makes his window a painting.

The Mirror

I am beginning to see the edges of me.
Cheekbones.
Collar bones.
Hollows.
Shadows.
Here, a grey hair.
There, an etched line.
This way, a curve.
That way, a carving.
The image is still blurry,
somewhat indistinct.
But, I am taking up space.
Present.
I see long sweeping lines,
textured veins.
I am more faded than I thought.
But getting brighter,
stiller,
clearer, every day.
I am an outline –
annotated
by years yet to come.

Winter Solstice

I am a state of grace.
I am longer than this longest night,
stronger, brighter, fuller.
I too, renew.
The whole world holds its breath,
just for a moment,
and pauses to see.
Glory.
Be.

Christmas Chaos

Shrieking, laughing, fighting, whining,
Faces alight with excitement.
Sugar high.
Crafts, crafts, crafts.
Reliving childhood,
I create a world of wonder
Out of fresh snow,
Cinnamon smells, and songs.
Cutting, taping, signing, sighing,
Counting down the sleeps.
Sugar crash.
Bake, make, bake.
Placate.
Tears in my eyes as I write one less name on a Christmas card,
one more measure of loved ones lost too soon.
Bittersweetly, I say yes to a pretty please request
for one more cookie,
knowing that the inevitable meltdown
is worth it.
Memories are too precious
not to make.

Occupy Haiku

Occupy. It means:
to do things differently.
No more – and no less.

Ready or not

Change swirls around me, a rising tide.
Comfortable in water, I float easily, watching, wading, immersed.
I see islands of indomitable resistance flooded.
I am swept past battered shores.
Nothing is untouched, nothing is spared.
Only those of courage, confidence and conviction will forget about the wet,
and remember to look up –
at the everpresent sky.