Heavy writing homework, tornado warnings and homecoming have kept me from posting poems. And today is filled again in other ways. I was at Playa last year when I wrote this, watching snow, listening to silence. But I repost it today for those two crazy kids who hopped over to Iceland... love them both so much.
monochrome blossom, soft down.
& the birds are silent this dawn
yesterday’s sun & activity
ushering in this morning.
Quiet & rest. The snow
still sifting down, heavy
with water & promise.
Along the pond the only sounds are ducks plunging underwater and then popping back up; the puddled softness of snow falling into the water from the overhanging branches. A snowy pond music, a mid-April melody. The day lightens and then lightens more. I make the first human trail. I see goose tracks, a rabbit, something went under the snow across the path and their tunnel has since collapsed. Bird tracks everywhere: how do I read these notes?
The snow is so wet, heavy, melting everywhere (in the back of my mind, please don’t freeze – don’t get colder) a steady stream of water off the lodge roof; at my cabin, I could hear the snow compressing, crashing down.
It is quiet off the lakebed (how many times have I written quiet this week?) the view limited. An insect lands on a bare stalk of yellow grass, “Careful,” I warn, “the swallows are out.” As if on cue a hawk on the willow flinches as it is dive bombed by a bold swallow. It shrugs off the attack like the snow on its feathers.
The clouds rise. The far ridge can be seen still holding a shawl of cloud over its shoulders but clearing above. The lakebed visible again. It is eight o’clock. This weather is only a needed pause.
It is Saturday, the 16th of April. Miles away, thousands, in another country, another time zone, another wide place, my baby girl, my Bambina, our lovely and loved daughter is getting married. Their wedding day, like her life the way she wanted it, they. It’s as though the snow brought such perfect silence so I could lean into the world and almost hear their voices. That simple promise, “I do”.
The snow is so wet, heavy, melting everywhere (in the back of my mind, please don’t freeze – don’t get colder) a steady stream of water off the lodge roof; at my cabin, I could hear the snow compressing, crashing down.
It is quiet off the lakebed (how many times have I written quiet this week?) the view limited. An insect lands on a bare stalk of yellow grass, “Careful,” I warn, “the swallows are out.” As if on cue a hawk on the willow flinches as it is dive bombed by a bold swallow. It shrugs off the attack like the snow on its feathers.
The clouds rise. The far ridge can be seen still holding a shawl of cloud over its shoulders but clearing above. The lakebed visible again. It is eight o’clock. This weather is only a needed pause.
It is Saturday, the 16th of April. Miles away, thousands, in another country, another time zone, another wide place, my baby girl, my Bambina, our lovely and loved daughter is getting married. Their wedding day, like her life the way she wanted it, they. It’s as though the snow brought such perfect silence so I could lean into the world and almost hear their voices. That simple promise, “I do”.
