I love the trees in winter. My eyes are drawn to them, to their still winter silhouettes against the changing tapestry of the skies. There’s something so clean and clear about them. Undiluted dendritic elegance.
Driving home recently, I had the sudden realization that I will miss the stark winter trees come spring. While I’ll certainly enjoy the delicate emergence of greenery, something within me cleaves to the clarity of winter tree lines. Their shapes and shadows collaborate with sky and water and snow-covered land. They resonate with me on a fundamental level. I felt an odd sense of grief at their impending transformation and a deep appreciation for their presence.
A Tree in Winter
Plant a tree above my grave Not one to bloom in rubied exuberance nor an evergreen unchanging season after season
Instead, plant a tree with winter in mind a tree that is stalwart and true one that stretches upward into the lingering shadows of long, cold days quilting the skies at dawn and dusk, its limbs a tracery a testament to endurance and a reassurance Solace and stark beauty in the dark, dark days
I hope my poem doesn’t come across as too dark. I really am just feeling thankful for the beauty of trees in a still somber landscape. In Maine, winter is still firmly entrenched, though every day the sun rises a touch earlier and sets a touch later. And those beautiful, beautiful trees rise above it all. Wishing you winter or early spring beauty wherever you may be.
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The morning sun spills in through aged glass to pebble the wall, highlighting the dust that’s gathered on the side table. It lingers on the lopsided ceramic dish, crafted long ago by little fingers.
Yesterday’s gift, today’s time capsule.
The light flows over an old roll of film rescued from some forgotten corner, placed there on the table where temporary spun into long-lasting. It, too, no doubt, wears a fine mantle of dust. What memories rustle within?
The light quivers, casting an aquatic feel over the scene. Submerging items. In light. In dust. In time.
Today perhaps I’ll wipe off the table, put a few candies in the empty dish. Perhaps I’ll even research where I can send film for developing.
Or maybe I’ll just let the memories lie still, and sit and watch the light play across the wall, flickering like an old movie reel.
I’m participating in Laura Shovan’s February Challenge this year. I must confess that I haven’t been as consistent as usual in my participation. I think right now I’m at a 50% response rate. I’m trying to look at that as half success, rather than as half failure. At any rate, I’m hoping to rectify that moving forward. (Yay for weekends!)
Our first prompt was essentially to deconstruct or mess around with a narrative or its structure. While initially this felt a bit brain-twisty, eventually I found it fascinating. I loved reading all the amazingly creative takes on it, too. I shared one response with the group, but was inspired to write another one as well.
(Photo credit to : markmatucciphoto)
“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” The other version
That Dog laid still, played dead. He wasn’t lazy not at all
And that Fox wasn’t quite as quick as he claimed. Though he was brown. Then.
That Fox did jump or try to jump over that still seemingly lazy Dog.
But that wily Dog stood up with a Woof shake Woof catching that Fox in a brief mid-air limbtangle.
Then that Dog untangled himself, and shrugged off Fox and trotted away with a lazy grin.
That Fox dusted off his chagrin, blushing red from tip to tail, and limped away…
I happened to glance over amidst the hubbub of snow gear removal after recess. M, a whirling dervish of a second grader, was kneeling before D, who sat in a chair. It may have been the circle of stillness around them that caught my eye. To be clear, M isn’t well-known for consistently making well-considered choices, so I definitely wanted to take a closer look.
What was going on? I wondered.
I walked across the room, watching as M’s hand reached out. He grasped the rear collar of D’s shoe and pulled it back. D simultaneously pushed to slip his foot into the shoe. D had arrived at school that day delighted with his new pair of adaptive shoes. The most recent new pair had been difficult to get on with a too-tight fit. These had laces and a velcro strap rather than zippers, and appeared much easier to manage. Apparently, M had decided to give him a hand.
It struck me that I had never really seen M and D interact much before. They certainly got along, but didn’t partner up much and certainly didn’t “hang out.” But there they were.
As I watched, M sat down on the floor, picked up D’s shoelaces, and got to work. I moved over to check in with D. about something else. We talked for a minute or two. As our conversation ended, M still sat on the floor, working intently.
Suddenly he shrugged and dropped the laces, abandoning the job. He looked up.
“I can’t really tie shoes,” he admitted to D, “that’s why I don’t have the tying kind of shoe.”
“That’s ok, “D said. “It’s nice that you tried. Thanks!”
M got up and whirled away.
It was such a small moment, but it’s lingered with me.
Catherine Flynn had our Inklings challenge this month. She took her prompt from the book How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope. Here was the invitation she shared: “Can you remember a time when you felt so consumed with the act of making something that you lost all sense of time and your mind seemed to clear? What allowed you to enter this mindful creative space?” When we talked about the prompt, there was some discussion of flow and losing oneself in the flow.
To be honest, there’s a little bit too much flow going on around here, because apparently January flowed right into February without my paying too much attention. Bottom line: I did not remember that our Inkling challenge was due until last night when I was in bed. Oops. And then I had a full day of PD today.
I came home determined to write something. I thought about times I’d felt immersed in creativity, lost to the ticking of the clock, and almost always I remembered mornings outside with my camera in hand. These are such magical moments for me. My mind wandered, recalling vivid sunrises, spiraling sea smoke, soaring birds and dazzling explosions of hoarfrost…the next thing I knew, I was waking up in my chair. It really has been a long, long week.
I finally cobbled together a nonet, expanding from a couple of lines I’d written in my notebook.
Dawn tendrils into full blossoming day. Watch the world wake and shake off nighttime shadows Follow its invitation from one hidden gem to the next Lose yourself in winter’s enchantment
I’ve been toying around with choosing One Little Word (OLW) for a while now. As best as my speedy, somewhat superficial Google search could find, this practice was started by Ali Edwards as a creative project. She wrote, “In 2006 I began a tradition of choosing one word for myself each January—a word to focus on, to live with, to investigate, to write about, to craft with, and to reflect upon as I go about my daily life.” This is a practice that’s always intrigued me, but I’ve only joined in twice before. This year, however, without any conscious intention, I found myself contemplating potential word candidates early in December. Apparently, I was once again drawn to the idea of having a word as a sort of guide, or touchstone, to come back to again and again throughout the year.
Over the past weeks, I’ve considered a few words. At first I thought, “Hmmm….How about “Choose” for a OLW? That could be a good word.” And it could be. But then I remembered that “Choose” had been my word in 2016. Oops. I’m not sure exactly what that says about me, but my first thought was…stagnation.
Back to the drawing board.
I thought of “Grow” next. I liked the gardening connection and the idea of metaphorically tending the soil, pulling out weeds, nourishing new growth. I’d like to grow and push myself into new areas of challenge this year. Still, it felt a bit too passive and didn’t fully resonate. On multiple layers I also didn’t love the definition’s big emphasis on simply getting larger.
“Begin?” I considered that for a while. I liked the push toward starting something, toward moving forward. It felt simple but potentially powerful. Still, it didn’t feel quite right.
Then, another word came to me: “Cultivate.” It’s akin to grow, but implies more deliberate, active choice.
I repeated the word out loud several times. I liked that it was a verb. I even liked the way it felt in my mouth when I said it. I looked it up. (Sometimes a word has meanings that you haven’t considered, and I wanted to cover my bases.) With cultivate, there’s the obvious definition of preparing for and growing crops, but there’s a lot of interesting nuance, too. Merriam-Webster includes these definitions: “to foster the growth of”, “to improve by labor, care, or study : refine”, and to “further or encourage.” The Cambridge Dictionary includes “to try to develop and improve something” and “to create a new condition by directed effort”.
I can think of so many things I want to cultivate within myself and within my immediate environment–relationships, curiosity, creativity, gratitude, a growth mindset, and on and on and on. It feels like a good fit. It combines aspects of choice, grow and begin in one dynamic and purposeful word.
So, there it is. I’m in. I’m tilling the soil and planting the fertilizer. My OLW for 2023: Cultivate.
The Poetry Princesses invited others to join in the fun this month and tackle cascade poems. I was immediately drawn by the name of the form and then intrigued by the mix of structure and freedom within it. Robert Lee Brewer succinctly describes it thus: “For the cascade poem, a poet takes each line from the first stanza of a poem and makes those the final lines of each stanza afterward. Beyond that, there are no additional rules for rhyming, meter, etc.” Here’s my cascade poem:
As Fall Turns to Winter
Outside the snow keeps falling but our fire burns bright even as the world disappears
We stand by the windows joined by our pale reflections Outside the snow keeps falling
We’re quieter these days tender and bruised, a bit sadder but our fire burns bright
We watch as our reflections reach out, hold hands, hold on even as the world disappears.
It was cold. Really cold. Like single digit cold. Still, I was itchy to get out and photograph a sunrise. I was overdue for a weekend photo foray. Friday’s snow still clung to the trees, and it was sure to be a beautiful morning, even if the sunrise was muted. I bundled up and set out, heading south to a beach I rarely visit.
I arrived at the beach about 15 minutes before sunrise. A few rocks rose above the surf, drawing my eye. I watched the waves lift and swell around them. The interwoven patterns left on the sand by the receding tide picked up the early light, glowing. Small depressions of frozen salt water crackled with geometric shapes and crunched beneath my boots. The clouds clung low to the horizon, like a steel grey mountain range. Walking the shore, watching the colors shift in the sky, I felt myself relax into the rhythm of the morning.
As the day slowly lightened, I noticed wisps of sea smoke forming above the water. Even though my toes were going numb, I started grinning. Sea smoke is one of the most amazing gifts of winter. It forms when very cold air flows over relatively warmer seawater. Less dense than typical fog, it disperses easily with the slightest breeze. Today was calm enough and certainly cold enough. I prepared for the show. Sure enough, as the sun crept above the banks of clouds, I could see more and more sea smoke tendrilling above the water.
Then, as day broke, the air and waves gradually transformed to molten gold.
I stood, transfixed, for moment after moment after moment. Thankful. Reverent.
Experiences like this move me deeply. They ripple through me and lift me. I both lose and find myself, saturated in wonder.
After a long while, reality intruded. The deep growing ache in my fingers and toes sent me heading reluctantly back in the direction of the car. Even though I was hurting, I still struggled to pull myself away from the ever changing scene.
“Just one more picture,” I thought, again and again.
Eventually, I made it back to my car. The pain in my feet had become insistent at this point. I turned up the heat, blasting my boots with warmth, then drove along slowly, still lost in the glory of the morning.
Before too long, driving past a local land trust, I noticed the gleam and glow of snow and the silhouette of a favorite tree. Making a snap decision, I pulled into a convenient driveway, turned around, and headed back to the small parking lot.
“Molly, you are crazy,” I thought, as my toes throbbed in rebuke. “You’re going to permanently damage your feet.”
“It’s okay,” I reassured myself. “I’ll just take a photo or two.”
Parking quickly, I stepped out of the warm car into the freezing cold morning once again.
Walking through the snow, trying to get better lighting for my photo, I glanced down at the glimmering weeds and stopped in my tracks. What!? My mouth dropped. I crouched low to the ground, forgetting my aching toes for the moment. All along the snow, miniature forests of frost rose.
“Hoar frost!” I whispered.
It was as if I’d discovered a treasure chest of sparkling jewels. The moist air, combined with the bitter cold, had created an amazing winter wonderland. Everywhere I looked was enchantment. I moved giddily from branch to weed to berry, wondering at the intricate beauty all around me. Bedazzled and bewitched and beyond grateful. Again, I felt that lift. That buoyancy of spirit.
When I finally got back in the car, I was soaked through and my feet throbbed mercilessly. Still, I remained slightly stunned and totally awestruck. I kept thinking I might have missed all of this. I could have stayed home. I could have driven by. But I didn’t, and there was magic to be found.
I can’t remember when we last had a snow day. What a gift! I have all sorts of noble intentions, but keep finding myself drawn outside to take photographs, to watch the birds, to tilt my head back and watch the flakes appear as if by magic from the grey sky.
The gift of time as surely as snowflakes falling transforms the day
This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Marcie Flinchum Atkins at her blog. Be sure to stop by and check out her post, which shares her book, some companion books, and a new haiku. The Poetry Friday community is always a gift!
I’ve been dabbling in cinquains lately. Robert Lee Brewer at Writer’s Digest describes a cinquain as a “nifty 5-line poetic form.” From start to finish, the syllable line count is 2,4,6,8,2. There’s some flexibility, as the poet can add or remove a syllable from each line. Recently, I discovered a daily cinquain prompt on Twitter (@AlexPriceWriter) and it’s been a fun, no stress way to start my day. Here are two from this past week:
prompt: crowd
My head: a mad slippery crowd of teeming thoughts struggling to make their way upstream to spawn.
As tends to happen, once you start thinking about a form, it takes up residence in your head. So, driving to work this week, I continued dabbling with cinquains, even without a prompt!
Commute Eastern blush ignites the coming day Everything seems possible at sunrise
Nix the comfort zone 