I came across a poem recently and it, and its backstory, moved me deeply. I’ve reread it several times and have thought about it often. The poet, David Sloan, said that he wrote this poem after hearing a friend describe his experiences as a member of a group that sings people who are close to dying “over the threshold.”

This morning a friend wrote to tell of a relative’s death, a beautiful passing accompanied by love, laughter and tears. It struck me that she and her family were essentially “singing” their loved one over the threshold. I’m hoping that she reads this poem today.

Threshold Choir
by David Sloan

Everyone’s eyes are closed—
the singers, the granddaughter 
asleep in a chair pulled close 
to the bed, and what’s left
of a woman breathing raggedly, 
straining to escape a husk. 

Despite the angularity 
of the room, circles appear 
everywhere; a ring of family 
photographs, singers surrounding 
the bed, the tag around the dying 
woman’s flower-stem wrist, the O 
made by the dozing girl’s mouth.

The tubes have been pulled out, 
machines have stopped humming.   
They sing adagio, softly, 

I will be your standing stone

…

To read the entire poem, click here.

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Kiesha Shephard at her blog, Whispers from the Ridge. She’s shining a spotlight on one of her favorite poets, Paul Laurence Dunbar. I know I’ll be returning to her site again to reread the poem, “Sympathy,” that she is sharing there.

Saturday was an odd day. Sometimes I felt content, finishing up a chore, pulling a few weeds, wiling away some time reading on the porch. At other times, I was unsure what to do. I moved from task to task, not getting much done, feeling uneasy–sort of nebulously stressed. I couldn’t put my finger on the pulse of that stress, but was pretty sure it was spelled s-c-h-o-o-l. I was aware of so much poised to begin, so much ending and felt unable, or perhaps unwilling, to address either. At least not yet.

The weather mirrored some of my confusion. The air was cool, but the sun was quite warm. As my daughter put it, “These days it’s fall in the morning and summer by afternoon.” Or fall in the shade and summer in the sun.

At one point, I lingered on the porch, slightly chilled when the breeze picked up or the clouds shadowed me. Too warm when the sun blazed. I read and read, escaping into the twists and turns of my latest mystery. Ultimately, lulled by a stretch of warm and sunny, and dulled by a few restless nights weighted with worries, I dozed, upright in the Adirondack chair.

When I woke, I was confused.

What was that?

A loud whirring, buzzing filled my ears.

Huh? What?

I turned toward the sound, opening my eyes groggily. Then more quickly.

Whoa!

Right next to me, right by my head, was a hummingbird!

Her feathers glistened green and her delicate feet dangled below her. She was so close that I could feel the air from her wings brush against my cheek. I watched her, not daring to move. She hovered about my head, darting forward and back, from one side to the other a few times. Then suddenly, with no warning, she swiftly flew off, disappearing behind the house.

What was that about?

I looked around. I wasn’t near the feeder. I wasn’t wearing red. There were no flowering plants next to me. In front of me, the garden blooms shone in the bright light, primarily white and yellow tones with touches of fading pink. Fruit hung red and heavy on the bending branches of the apple tree. The sky was a brilliant blue, with a few pillowy clouds. Birds flew in to the feeder, chattering, and then flew away again. The sun still warmed my skin, but fall nipped at the edges, waiting in the shadows.

I felt a surge of deep appreciation for the beauty that surrounded me but found no explanation for the hummingbird’s visit.

I sat still for quite some time. Waiting. But she did not return. Perhaps she was merely passing through. Perhaps she had already begun her lengthy migration to warmer climes. Perhaps she too was unsettled by the coming changes.

Slowly I reopened my book and retreated again. Both part of the world and separate from it. In a sort of voluntary stasis. Not quite ready, yet, to fully launch into the next stage of the coming adventure.

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater, today’s Poetry Friday hostess extraordinaire, recently posted a daily prompt for Laura Shovan’s Water Poem Project. She suggested writing about a water memory. I haven’t had much opportunity to respond to prompts lately, but this one caught my fancy.

Once

Once
I stood
beneath a lacery
of leaves
woven
by towering trees
bedecked
in dappled sunlight.
A brook
threaded its way
down the hill
around and over
moss-covered rocks,
its crystalline waters
burbling,
spilling,
running free,
their song
as refreshing
as a cool breeze—
A gift
from the forest
to me.

© Molly Hogan , 2020, draft

Make sure to visit the PF Roundup at Amy’s amazing blog, The Poem Farm. You can also check out Amy’s National Poetry Projects, both current and past. Set aside some time and prepare to enjoy yourself!

(Please forgive the formatting—we’re going on 24 hours without power and I’ve never used my phone to post before! I’ll need to add links later too! Update: 36 hours later and we just got power back! Woot!)

March 2020 SOLC–Day 1
This month I’m participating in the Slice of Life Challenge (SOLC) to write about a small moment every day in March. A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

On Saturday afternoon, I lounged in the family room, lost in my mystery novel, enjoying a low-energy afternoon after an active, productive morning. At some point, I must have nodded off. When I woke, I still felt deliciously drowsy. I stretched and slowly opened my eyes.

I didn’t think I’d slept long, but the light that filled the room was definitely odd.  I yawned, shrugged off the throw blanket and walked over to the window to look outside. The sun was shining, but it was…snowing?

What?

Suddenly wide awake, I plunged my feet into the nearest shoes, snatched up my camera and raced outside. The sun gleamed brightly through a bank of low clouds, but even as I watched, the snow flakes were falling faster and faster. It was stunning. Each flake glistened in the sky like glitter! I took a few pictures, well aware that I probably wouldn’t be able to capture the glorious light, the wonder of the moment.

After a few minutes, I raced back inside to grab my camera bag and a different lens. My husband looked up from his lazy afternoon couch position.

“It’s amazing out there!” I cried, then dashed out again.

I wandered about the yard, taking a picture now and then, slipping on the icy snow and grinning from ear to ear, transfixed by the sight. Snow flakes continued to fall, the sun shone, and the sky got bluer and bluer. It was a mad, magical moment.

I had wondered if my first small moment would be hard to find. If I’d regret signing up for the challenge this year. Instead, the moment drifted softly into my day. Precious and fleeting. Feeling a bit like a miracle.