In May at Michelle Heidenrich Barnes’s blog, Today’s Little Ditty, she and Julie Fogliano challenged writers to look out their windows and write a poem about what they saw. They decided to call these poems, Window Poems.

I spend a lot of time looking out my window and enjoy a beautiful view that often distracts me from whatever I should be doing.  This poetry challenge was right up my alley! I expected I would write something about the bird play at the feeders, the deer slipping through the trees, or even the solo turkey who’s been visiting us lately. Or perhaps I would write about the early morning moon shining through the dark branches, the silhouette of the barn roof at sunset, or the colorful blossoms emerging in the garden. I’m so often inspired by the beauty I see outside my window, especially at this time of year; It’s familiar writing territory for me.

Instead, one recent morning I found myself writing this:

Circle of Life

 

In class we’ve been using Robert Frost’s “Dust of Snow” as a mentor poem. We’ve read it and discussed it many times.

Among other things, we’ve discussed the idea that this poem shows how a small thing can have a big effect or greater significance. That there are potential small turning points throughout the day, and an unexpected moment, or interaction, can turn a day around, from regret to joy. I love the idea that when you are open to it, a moment–just a moment–can shift the mood of a day. Like Frost, for me that shift often involves an outdoor setting (or view) and a flash of feathers.

I’ve been thinking a lot about potential and the sense of possibility that is so pervasive in nature–at the feeders, at a vernal pool, in a meadow at dusk, by the bay at dawn, outside my window. The constant wonder–What will happen next? What will I see? What beauty will unfold? It seems to me that when surrounded by nature, you’re always on the brink of wonder. Something isn’t there. And then it is. Often it always was there, but you just hadn’t noticed it, or paid attention. If you can just sit still long enough…

As E.B. White wrote, “Life is always a rich and steady time when you are waiting for something to happen or to hatch.” I’ve become increasingly aware that when you’re open and attentive to the world around you, there is always potential for “something to happen” or something to emerge and for a small jolt of joy to reset or enrich your day.

Yesterday, I woke thinking about the beautiful female Baltimore Oriole who’s been visiting my house lately, tempted by spring temperatures and juicy oranges. We’ve had Baltimore Orioles pass through before, but much to my delight, this one has been lingering. I wondered if and when she might appear. I settled into working, but looked out the window intermittently. Sure enough, just as I was starting to feel the weight of upcoming due dates and general year-end craziness, I looked up from my papers, and there she was, in all her glory. She perched by the orange, content to sit and intermittently dine on strands of juicy pulp. Just like that my worries receded, my heart was lifted and my day improved. A moment–just a moment–can shift the mood of a day.

Update:  As I was revising this post this morning, I was messaging with my daughter about her being sick (nothing serious), health insurance when out-of-state, and some financial stuff. I felt my shoulders tense and stress settle in.

A flash of movement outside caught my eye, and once again, there was the oriole, her beautiful orange and brown plumage glowing amidst the springtime greenery. Instantly, I smiled and felt lighter, and so grateful. I’m starting to feel such a sense of kinship with this bird!

I suddenly remembered a friend who was into animal totems. She’d told me that Native Americans believed that when you repeatedly see an animal, there can be meaning in that sighting. Impulsively, I googled oriole and totem and found this: “Oriole shows new occurrences in life and brings a sense of joy to the world. He helps discover the inner child and the relation to all things in the nature realm. Orioles have a beautiful song and will teach you to sing your own song from the tree tops.” Hmmmm….

Not long after I first found out that I was going to have a poem in Imperfect: poems about mistakes: an anthology for middle schoolers, I shared the news with my class.

“Read the poem to us!” they chorused. So, of course, I did.

“Wow! That’s good!” someone said after I’d finished.

Another voice chimed in, “That’s not a poem! It’s like a story!”

So, we talked about different kinds of poetry for a few minutes.

“Read it again,” they said. So I did.

“That should be in a book,” called out a student, who may not have been listening closely.

“Yeah,” said another student, a close cohort of the first, who was clearly listening just as closely.

“Um, yeah,” I said, “It’s going to be. That’s what we were saying.”

“Wow!” they chorused. I stopped my almost eye roll and smiled at them.

“Yeah. Wow!” I thought.

Even though I knew I’d be receiving a copy of the book at home, I ordered myself a hardcover and had it delivered to school. After it arrived, I walked to the classroom, book in hand, still feeling amazed that I had a poem in this collection. My class was working with the Guidance teacher in the community area, and I had to walk right by them. They recognized the cover of the book in my hands from their bookmarks, and a chorus erupted.

“It’s here!”

“She got it!”

“Can we read it later?”

Later, when we were back in the classroom, we gathered at the carpet to read.

“Where’s your name?”

“Can we see it?”

They all edged closer to see.

“Read yours to us!”

“Yeah, read it again!”

So, I leafed through the pages and read my poem to them and then a few more poems.

“What are those marks on the pages?” they asked.

I explained about kintsugu –how when something broke, the Japanese mended it with gold, emphasizing the beauty of the fracture, rather than trying to hide it. They celebrated the breakage, believing it enhanced the piece.

“That’s just like people,” J. commented. “We make mistakes and then we learn and we’re even more beautiful.”

The other kids nodded solemnly in agreement.

Now that was pretty much a perfect moment.

It was a long, lingering winter. Now that spring is finally here, I feel like I’m trying to absorb it through my very pores.  Taking advantage of more daylight and warmer temperatures, I’ve been walking a lot after work lately.  Today, I visited a local preserve to visit some vernal pools and then walk a loop around the heath. It was a glorious spring afternoon, cool, but brilliantly sunny.

At the first vernal pool my eyes skimmed the water, searching for frogs or turtles. Light rippled on the pond water and the cattails whispered dryly in the gentle breeze. A shadow caught my eye. I watched fascinated as a salamander swam just beneath the surface of the water. It propelled itself forward, then slowed, allowing its legs to dangle. I watched for long minutes mesmerized by its movement in and out of shadows.

At the second vernal pool, two turtles, hearing me approach, slipped off their small island and into the water. I sat on a granite outcropping at the water’s edge.  I waited, relaxed, yet watchful. Finally, under the water, I saw movement.  I followed a turtle’s path as it swam across the pond to emerge near a short distance away. It looked at me. We sat together in the shade, while the birds called and red squirrels and chipmunks rustled through the leaves.

After a bit, I walked over to the heath trail. Overhead a trio of ducks flew, their calls a counterpoint to the burgeoning chorus of the peepers. The heath grasses unfolded with green upon green upon green. My eye was drawn to clusters of fiddle head ferns lollipopping in Seuss-like bouquets and the architecture of unfolding skunk cabbage. Puddles reflected tree trunks, budding branches and blue skies. 

Finally, turning a corner on the path, I saw a muskrat zooming through the water toward me, its wake a perfect vee. It came closer and closer, and then stopped to scramble out of the water onto some watery hillocks. It nibbled at some plants. I watched. We spent long minutes together in the heath. 

Finally, I moved on, lost in my surroundings until I finished my walk, thankful and at peace.

What a beautiful day. What a beautiful place. What a beautiful world.

At Dawn

The hours dangle before me
like ripe plums
sweet and full of promise

Rising early
I reach for one
and take a lusty bite

©2018 M. Hogan

I love rising early and greeting the day. Last weekend, on a very misty, moisty morning, I headed to the beach. It was delicious!

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by the warm and wonderful Brenda Harsham at her lovely blog, Friendly Fairytales. Make sure to stop by and enjoy this week’s dazzling assortment of poems.

It’s Sunday evening, maybe around 7:00 or 7:30 pm, and the light is just beginning to take on that evening glow. I’m sitting at my table, trying to get organized for the coming week, when a car slowly drives up the driveway. We live outside of our small town, at the top of a hill up a fairly long driveway, and I’m not expecting anyone. Kurt just left to go to a meeting a few minutes ago. Who is this? 

I’m sorry to say, but I go straight to suspicious. Last week on our town’s Facebook page, someone reported a break in, right down the road.  There’s been a lot of community chatter about people stopping by, unsolicited, strange cars circling areas, etc.

Who’s in this car? Is it a coincidence that they are pulling up now, right after Kurt left? Are they scoping out the house?  Or are they going to try to sell me something? Try to convert me? Why are they here?

I open the door hesitantly, well aware that I’m the only one home. I walk outside and eye a man and woman who are getting out of their SUV. The woman approaches first with a big smile. “Hi!” she calls, cheerfully. The man hangs back, smiling but silent.

I have no idea who they are. 

“Hi,” I say. I wait but she just continues to smile at me and walks closer. “Can I help you?” I finally ask.

“Well, I noticed you have those beautiful blue flowers going up your hill. I wonder if you’d mind if I took some,” she asks.

“Oh,” I pause for a second, recalibrating. “Sure, that’s fine,” I say, but then the ugly, doubtful part of me jumps in again. In my mind, I see my beautiful blue hillside ransacked and hear her saying, “Well, you said I could take some.” Maybe I should clarify.

“Um, how much did you want to take?”

“Oh, just a small clump to put by my bunny’s cage,” she says. This woman is clearly not a threat.

“Ok. You’re welcome to take some,” I say.

“Thanks so much,” she says. She and the man turn to walk back to the car.

“By the way, they’re called Siberian Squill, or Scilla,” I call after them.

“Thanks,” she says again, turning back toward me. “I’d noticed them a couple of times and thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I just took a small bunch from down near the road. They’re so beautiful.”

“They really are, aren’t they?” I say. “Help yourself.”

They get back in their car, wave and then turn around, clearly taking care to avoid driving on the grass. They disappear down the driveway.

I’ve been thinking about this encounter a lot, feeling unsettled by it. Even once they had shared their purpose, I had been cool and reserved. I kick myself now for being wary, instead of warm and welcoming. What has happened to me? I didn’t introduce myself to them or ask if they were neighbors.  I didn’t mention how often I’ve wondered who planted the scilla bulbs and when. I didn’t mention how we noticed their sweet scent perfuming the air just yesterday. I missed an opportunity to connect. I realize now that I’d chosen my stance and then I had a hard time shifting it.

But when did wary become my “go to” stance? When did I begin to doubt people and question their intentions? When did I become so suspicious? Is it just me or is it our world? Either way this isn’t the way I want to be in the world. I’m not sure what I’m going to do about that, but you can be sure I’m still thinking about it.