In the depths of winter,
when I stand as one of the white birch
when the ravens come to rest atop
silent pines and the fields calm
I finally know I am alive when I hear my heartbeat.
Stopping at the green gate and the snow covered driveway, the pine trees embrace the winter sky and the morning light, shadows reach across the space between tree trunks.
Too much Time has passed since the last visit and the space feels foreign. While I remember the name of each tree, I hope the ravens remember me as they circle nearly out of sight, their call still echoes through the forest, the only other voice heard above the winds’ song.
Packed snow crunches with each step. Brown pine needles blanket the white surface, untouched except the many deer tails weaving through the trees, reaching beyond what I can see.
The sun’s intensity warms tired bones and muscles. The wind directs eyes up as the treetops sway against the cloud-free winter blue.
Each breath tastes of nature. Each breath brings me back. Each breath brings me closer to a chance meeting with god.
The march from across the fields
and sea signals it is time.
Are they peering across the empty space
and watching events unfold?
Are they among us now and with every move
and change are the unseen influence?
And whose path do they desire us to follow?
I walk across the field and only ask why.
The answer comes quietly from the machine watching every move.
Is that the shadow that has been following me?
Edit of the previous posted here.
For now I am the winter
beneath the mask
revealed beneath the
cold water of the sea.
Eyes open to the sky
above the surface
breath held as snow begins.
Carried further into depths
away from the forming ice,
the sea floor echoes.
For now I am the winter
overtaking the autumn
slowing rivers and lakes
the graying sky swallows the sun.
Across the field a black swan
swoops low above
tall grass and sumac.
Winter’s presence everywhere
and nowhere as red wildflowers
disappear into white.
Do the stones we find on the shoreline, inspected closely before placing in a pocket for safe keeping, care that millions of years of effort have vanished?
We may live in nature, within its surroundings the forests’ cradling hands, but we must remember the cradling hands found us as they were here first, before we arrived as simple celestial beings.
Early October and the first snowfall through 30 degree temperatures, the leaves are still green and the grass is layered with a white coat. Gray rolling clouds ooze more snow as the winds toss individual flakes from rooftops and place them elsewhere in growing drifts.
I watch the sun rise from
distant cold moving water.
White-capped waves emerge from the horizon
and over time they will arrive at my feet
standing on the rock strewn shoreline
covered in clear ice.
I imagine staying here through the passing months
when the deep winter takes hold of this
land and my body becomes one with the
water and the earth and from this
connection I am transformed back to
my birth state when I emerged from the horizon.