Captured by Long, Icy Winter

LIVING WATER* On my morning walk a moment comes when I feel the water of life filling my cup. It gives me strength. It lifts me through the day. But by evening my portion is almost gone. It is time to watch the sparkling sky, with its promise for tomorrow and maybe, even more… THE CARDINAL SINGS The sun is warm on my back. The grass is soft under foot. “Pretty, pretty, pretty chirps the cardinal I cannot spot though trees are still bare. I tread the ivy path into the wood to find my sometime brook. Now just a trickle amongst dead leaves. the big gnarled oak still stands, and the red bird sings on. Not until I return to steps and stretch my neck directly above, does his tiny scarlet form pierce blue sky and say, Yes, spring is on the way! Step by step long icy winter stalked across the land halting traffic and timid feet, closing schools, stopping planes. Still, life goes on. But even long icy winters have their blessings! Cozy meetings at pastor’s house, a dozen or so seeking souls gather weekly to ponder “Spiritual Direction,” Henri Nouwen’s words, “Wisdom for the Long Walk of Faith.” We read, we pray, we share our thoughts. Intimately we talk of God in our lives. BEYOND ORION Four windows bring light into my back room slumber space. Two look south, the others, west. During milder seasons foliage of great trees block the night time sights both ways. But oh, the glories of the cold when Orion flies the skies across my southern view. Back to Conneaut I am born now stargazing with Dad, home at Grandmother’s house, from a long job hunting trek across the nation wide. What a wondrous treat to walk the sandy shore at eventide, to gaze above at the changing dome, yet recite so yearningly: “Twinkle, twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are up above the world so high. . .” ending nightly with fervent wish,’ Please dear God, Find my daddy a job! Seventy plus years have passed. Other children come to mind. Have their parents lost jobs? Have they lost their homes? Has someone taken them in? Or are they cold and hungry, looking longingly on high? TONIGHT Tonight listening to carols gay and full of yearning, loved ones of yesterday pierce my heart. A sometime stream rolls down my cheek tinged with both joy and sorrow. Ah, yes, ‘tis that time of year when in the darkest sky shines the brightest star to light tomorrow. Be not sad my soul. Life is full no matter where you are. MY FATHER OR WHY I LOVE THE WOODS Into the woods we went. I was not yet nine. The winter was cold and he, without a job, tried to explain the world to me in that quiet secluded spot devoid of people, leaves or even grass. A frozen pond amongst bare trees has marked the spot that’s carried me through years of hard times, resentment, anger, distrust. And pity, oh, yes, later pity as his body wasted away, eyes became sad and voice was stilled. Yet his hand scribbled on with notes of advice, “Use your head, Girl,” his last. No churchman he. It was decades after he died when on a long highway I cried in wonder and amazement at what a blessing he’d been exporting knowledge, tolerance, love of music, beauty, the urge to write and the woods. Oh, the woods. FOG Evening fog in late March lights up the city sky beyond the Annisquam. Mournful tone of horn holds no fear for me. Its low music speaks of days gone by when Donald was here and in his quiet way showed me wonders that are Gloucester, Cape Ann, and so much more. We vacationed with our children, his parents and all their kin, taking in the beaches, going for a swim. We prowled the docks around the harbor watched the catch come in. Empty masts stand stately home at last lined up along the bay. .Here I am back again, alone alas, soaking up the marvels of this community, its past. Our children live nearby, grandchildren and greats too, except for one who joins us now and then. We live our different lives, but will come together soon. Growing in awareness of others here and there, we strive our best FOG Evening fog in late March lights up the city sky beyond the Annisquam. Mournful tone of horn holds no fear for me. Its low music speaks of days gone by when Donald was here and in his quiet way showed me wonders that are Gloucester, Cape Ann, and so much more. We vacationed with our children, his parents and all their kin, taking in the beaches, going for a swim. We prowled the docks around the harbor watched the catch come in. Empty masts stand stately home at last lined up along the bay. .Here I am back again, alone alas, soaking up the marvels of this community, its past. Our children live nearby, grandchildren and greats too, except for one who joins us now and then. We live our different lives, but will come together soon. Growing in awareness of others here and there, we strive our best . DEATH OF A TREE Our big spruce was blown over in a storm last night. When I went to bed lightening bolted over the hill across the street. The trees and ocean were howling like never before. I wondered if I would be able to sleep. Even the windows creaked. Should I move to the front bedroom where there were only two instead of five? I decided not. As the clamor increased I crawled out from the blankets made my way in the dark to back windows where I saw the two commemorative spruce frantically waving in a cloudlit sky. The house shook, but I heard no resounding crunch over the noise of wind and waves. Maybe vegetation where the larger tree landed cushioned the sound for when I sat up in the morning an ominous void had replaced the giant plant’s station of eighty years. And then I saw a huge boulder just below the overturned root. It was almost as large as the only other gift of the glacier in our yard. The spruce had left its own tombstone! compensation for damaging the granite wall which sheltered buried tulip bulbs. I grieve for the fallen tree, the crumbled wall and the vulnerable bulbs. I wonder what will fill this space. But life has a way of mending that I am willing to embrace. DEATH OF A TREE Our big spruce was blown over in a storm last night. When I went to bed lightening bolted over the hill across the street. The trees and ocean were howling like never before. I wondered if I would be able to sleep. Even the windows creaked. Should I move to the front bedroom where there were only two instead of five? I decided not. As the clamor increased I crawled out from the blankets made my way in the dark to back windows where I saw the two commemorative spruce frantically waving in a cloudlit sky. The house shook, but I heard no resounding crunch over the noise of wind and waves. Maybe vegetation where the larger tree landed cushioned the sound for when I sat up in the morning an ominous void had replaced the giant plant’s station of eighty years. And then I saw a huge boulder just below the overturned root. It was almost as large as the only other gift of the glacier in our yard. The spruce had left its own tombstone! compensation for damaging the granite wall which sheltered buried tulip bulbs. I grieve for the fallen tree, the crumbled wall and the vulnerable bulbs. I wonder what will fill this space. But life has a way of mending that I am willing to embrace.