I wake in the darkness of early morning and  linger for a bit in bed, snuggling down into the warm nest of my tangled blankets. Finally, heaving a sigh, I roll over, grab my glasses and Fitbit (got to count EVERY step!) and step onto the chilly wooden floors.  Moving out into the hallway, I turn to head toward the kitchen and coffee and stop in my tracks. The outside light had been left on overnight and this morning it illuminates the garden, which, unexpectedly, is lightly dusted with snow. Every bush and shrub, every desiccated stalk is transformed, sugar-coated and glimmering. How had I forgotten that unearthly early morning glow of new-fallen snow?

I stand by the window as the coffee pot brews and hisses. Outside snow flakes shimmer in a dazzling show, falling softly, quietly. The light glimmers off the flakes, and ignites icy sparks in the fallen snow. I could linger by the window all morning and lose myself in the wonder of it. First snow. What a gift to waken to this sight of unforecasted snow, coating everything in brilliant white serenity.

In the midst of enjoying the snowfall, I remember the butterfly. This past Saturday was a beautiful, warm day, unnatural for November. Days like this make me slightly uneasy as I can never decide if they are a gift from summer or a dark omen of climate warming. I found the butterfly firmly attached to a burlap bag near a pile of gardening materials. At first I thought it was dead, but it gripped the burlap firmly and moved one small twig-like leg when I gently touched it. Though I urged it to depart in the unseasonal warmth, it stubbornly clung to that black bag. Now I wondered and worried. Was it still there?

Before leaving for school, I head back to the stack of burlap sacks. They are now covered in a generous coating of snow. I turn the bag upside down and the snow clumps off onto the ground below with a muffled thud. No butterfly in sight, only a crumpled leaf that sets off a brief false alarm. Perhaps, I hope, perhaps it did leave during the weekend’s unseasonal warmth.

As I set the bag back on the ground, I suddenly spy the butterfly, now firmly attached to the bag’s dry underside. Surely it must be dead. I gently nudge its tiny leg and it opens and shuts its wings. Slowly. Once. Twice. The snow continues to fall. I don’t know what to do. Should I move it somewhere? But where?  I run through a few alternatives in my head, none of them inspired. Will anything I do make a difference? Ultimately, I gently set the bag back down, butterfly firmly attached and back away, hoping the day will warm up and allow the butterfly some chance for flight. I know this is highly unlikely, but I’m uncertain about whether to interfere or how to do so.

The snow continues to fall through the day, I appreciate its beauty but I wonder. Should I have done more for that butterfly?

This poem packs a punch.

Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed–
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

…

(click on the title to read the rest of the poem)

Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted today by Brenda Davis Harsham at her lovely blog Friendly Fairy Tales.

Not long ago, I walked into our barn in search of a hammer. I looked around, appreciating my husband’s recent tidying-up efforts. Much had been cleared away and random items had emerged from hiding in the loft and from other previously jumbled nooks and crannies. I looked on shelves and peered into the stalls, one by one, hoping to spy the elusive tool. In the end stall, a number of items leaned against the rough hewn wall. Amongst them, clearly visible, was a single yellow ladder back chair. I was immediately distracted from my quest. Where had it come from? Where had it been?

I remember that chair, along with others like it, arranged around the butcher block table in our family kitchen – the kitchen that is at the heart of so many of my childhood memories. It was the 70’s and my mom, along with fashion, favored bright and cheerful yellows, greens and oranges. These chairs fit right in, neatly complementing the vivid plaid wallpaper. I remember sitting on those woven rush seats and eating our meals together. I remember sitting on them at the end of a school day, enjoying the still-warm-from-the-oven cookies that often welcomed us home. I remember sitting on them as a family.

There must have been at least seven of these chairs once, but now there’s only this one. This one solitary chair sitting in my barn gathering dust, a relic from another time. A time when my toughest choice was which friend to invite for a sleep-over or who was cuter: Shaun Cassidy or Parker Stevenson?  A time when my family was whole and my world was small and simple, safe and secure. A time before I learned how quickly things could fracture and change irretrievably.

Standing in the barn, I ran my finger across the dusty surface of the chair. The yellow paint shone a bit brighter in that spot; my finger was gritty with dirt. How long has it been since anyone sat in this chair? Where did the others go?

I went into the barn to find a missing hammer.  A short while later, I emerged without it, feeling a bit lost myself.

Walking through the woods this fall, I’ve discovered multitudes of mushrooms in all shapes and sizes. This particularly delicate one, the only one of its kind I’ve seen, caught my fancy and sent my thoughts swirling to the world of fairies.After the festivities end
and dawn’s light fringes the sky,
who tucks away
the fairy paraphernalia
so no discerning human eye
casts a canny glance
at petalled paths
and circled stones?

Flush with late night revelry,
trailing dew-laden feet and
drooping wings,
might the sleepy wee folk
overlook
a wayward blossom
or other tell-tale sign-
perhaps this fairy parasol,
a dainty moonshine shield,
now illuminated
in sunshine’s glow
above an oddly tidy
bed of moss?

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Please take the time to check out Poetry Friday Roundup. This week it’s hosted by the amazing Jama Rattigan who dishes up delights at her feast of a blog, Jama’s Alphabet Soup.

On Tuesday night my daughter texted me. “So scared 4 the election ”

On Wednesday morning I woke to the news that Donald Trump had won.  After the initial shock, I mostly felt sad, tremendously sad. My daughter messaged me again:

We texted back and forth,  sharing our disbelief and sorrow, and shortly afterward I headed off to work…to the first child in the door who yelled, “We’re all going to be dead in four years!” as he entered. To another who came in fist pumping and bellowing, “Trump! Trump! Trump!” To a story shared by a coworker about a kindergartener who said, “Hillary Clinton won’t be President. That’s good because she wants to take babies out of their mommy’s bodies before they’re ready.” To a fourth grader who literally shook every time someone started talking about the election. I wanted to sit and bury my face in my hands.

And then my daughter texted me this:

My eyes filled with tears and my heart burst with pride. These two young women, deeply distraught by the election results, went out of their way to create something positive for those around them. They put aside their sorrow and worry and handed out donuts and coffee, encouraging people to write each other messages of support and encouragement.

This may seem like a small thing–coffee and donuts– but it is not. There is tremendous power in choosing to reach out and in turning fear and sorrow into a positive force.

The sign at their table read, “Love Will Win.” Dear God, I hope so. And in the meantime, there is certainly solace to be found in the words of Mary Oliver and Emily Dickinson.

More and more I’m drawn to the ocean. The open horizon soothes me and the potential for beach combing discoveries spices my visits. It’s a sweet retreat from the hurly-burly of teaching life and a wonderful place to indulge my love of photography. Until recently, I don’t think I’ve ever spent time on the beach in the fall.  I’ve tumbled into love with the long expanses of empty beach, moody skies, brisk breezes, sculpted sand and, above all, the serenity.  The juxtaposition of autumn light and sites against the quintessential summer setting has been a startling, yet deeply satisfying experience.

The Maine beaches I most love combine wind-whipped pines, rose-dotted dunes, tide-tunneled rocks, pockets of tidal pools and unexpected sandy crescents. These beaches are hidden behind headlands, adjacent to marshes and tucked into rocky coastline. They are places for exploration, contemplation and appreciation. Even when out of sight, the ocean is always there in the salty bite of the breeze and the occasional call of gulls. These recent weekend autumnal beach visits have been a balm, a boon, a blessing.

I stepped outside early on a recent morning, already wondering how I’d manage the unrelenting pace of the next few days, jam-packed with teaching and conferences. Walking out to the car, Orion’s belt clearly gleamed in the dark sky over my barn roof. Attention caught, I looked around and saw a network of stars sparkling in the heavens above me, brilliant pinpoints of light. I spied the Big Dipper, low on the horizon and searched the skies, trying to pick out other, more elusive constellations.

My mind skipped back to a recent event with a volunteer astronomer at our school. He had come one evening to set up a telescope and show us the moon, constellations and other stellar objects (planets and galaxies and globular clusters, oh my!). As darkness slowly crept in, he’d trained his telescope on the moon. He shared how, as a child, he’d loved studying the moon, but now it is the bane of his, and other astronomers’, existence; For when the moon shines, other celestial objects are harder to observe.

A beautiful fall moon on a different evening…

We had gathered in the soccer field and students and parents alike oohed and aahed as they took their turns and saw the moon’s detailed landscape filling the scope of the viewer. Some children ran off shortly afterward, drawn by the lure of the darkened playground, plenty of peers, and no imminent recess-ending whistle. Many remained, enthralled by the flow of facts and stories. Our volunteer pointed out varied lunar landscape features and spoke of mares, craters and canyons or rilles, one stretching approximately the distance from California to New York. Periodically he scanned the skies, looking for other emerging objects. After a bit he crowed, “There’s Venus!”  He eagerly readjusted his telescope to capture that planet in its sites. As the evening progressed and the stars emerged, he told stories of Greek Gods and Goddesses, linking Cassiopeia to Andromeda and Perseus, tracing star patterns across the sky with his brilliant green laser pointer.

This morning I looked at those stars brilliantly gleaming above and tried, in vain, to put them together into the patterns our volunteer had shown us. I imagined them like a road map of the heavens and envied his ability to navigate them with ease. The scope of space befuddles me, and I can’t quite wrap my head around light years and galaxies and solar systems. Clearly, I am not the first to feel immeasurably small in the face of such overwhelming vastness. Through the ages, man has valiantly tried to make sense of it all, to impose some sort of order or meaning over it, weaving patterns together into narrative constellations–Ah, the power of story, lighting a navigable path through the night skies.

I may not be able to place myself precisely in this universe, but I’m here. Looking upward one last time as I climbed into my car, humbled by the incomprehensible immensity of that dazzling display overhead, I set off into my own story, determined to write it as well as I can.

The fog hung heavy on my drive to work this morning. It hugged the rolling hills, pooled in the valleys, and drifted in sinuous shapes across the landscape, striating the scene. Everything had a misty, hazy, otherworldly quality. I drove carefully, enjoying the moody morning and the changing views.

After arriving at school, I entered the building and dove straight into work. Perhaps half an hour later, I was racing down the hallway, beelining to the copier, my head swirling with plans, fledgling ideas, and questions, when I chanced to glance out a nearby window. Something caught my eye and I stopped to look. The mist persisted and there in the school garden several skeletal sun flowers hung their seed-laden heads. Atop them rested half a dozen ebony crows. Together, they formed a silhouette against the hazy woods in the background. Eerie. Beautiful. I watched, enthralled, as the mist swirled and the crows silently feasted, setting the heavy sunflowers swaying.

After a bit, I retraced my steps back to my classroom and grabbed my camera, wanting to capture this amazing scene. Exiting the school by the far doors, I slowly crept around the side of the building. I turned my camera on far before reaching my target, not wanting the noise to spook the birds. I knew my success was unlikely as crows are canny birds, but I was hoping my zoom lens would allow me to photograph them from an unthreatening distance. As I neared, I realized I’d planned my approach poorly. Instead of the haze and tree backdrop I had been admiring, the school would be in the background from my vantage. Undeterred, I continued on my way, stepping quietly on the moist grass.  Closer. Closer. I held my camera poised in hand and carefully, slowly moved toward the garden. I finally rounded the corner, camera held high, and immediately the crows erupted from the garden leaving sunflower heads bobbing and swaying. Their heavy wings and raucous calls beat the air. I managed to catch one in a quick, blurry, unsatisfying shot.

As I turned to walk back to the doorway, the crows lit high in a nearby tree, cawing belligerently at me, clearly disgruntled at my rude intrusion. They rose and settled in the tree, noisy black shadows. I knew by the time I had settled back into my work, they would return to the feast, yet I did feel slightly ashamed for disrupting their beautiful morning breakfast. In the meantime, even without a photograph, the interaction had brightened my morning, reminding me, once again, to look out a window once in a while and take in the scene.

On a walk in the woods on Monday, I stumbled upon this surprise–a gargoyle tucked into the base of a tree. I posted about my walk (here) and several commenters noted that they thought the gargoyle photo worthy of a poem. Ever ready for a new idea, I started writing and also dipped into a little research.

One of my delights in writing is the discovery of new information from side-research. This time I learned that I actually hadn’t seen a gargoyle!  The word, gargoyle, originates from the French word for throat, gargouille. I discovered that gargoyles are technically associated with diverting water from buildings, serving as water spouts.  Thus, this figure, solely decorative in nature, would more appropriately be called a grotesque. Who knew!? There are different views on the purpose of these elaborate carvings. Some hypothesize that gargoyles and grotesques were supposed to be reminders of the evil to be found outside church walls, a potent visual for illiterate churchgoers. Others believe that gargoyles were more protective in nature–present to fight off evil spirits or creatures.  Much to my surprise, gargoyles were not without detractors. I was fascinated by this quote from St. Bernard of Clairvaux who was a well-known opponent of gargoyles in the 12th century. I was particularly delighted by his final pragmatic line, which, to me, sounds quite contemporary, and thoroughly exasperated as well.

“What are these fantastic monsters doing in the cloisters before the eyes of the brothers as they read? What is the meaning of these unclean monkeys, these strange savage lions, and monsters? To what purpose are here placed these creatures, half beast, half man, or these spotted tigers? I see several bodies with one head and several heads with one body. Here is a quadruped with a serpent’s head, there a fish with a quadruped’s head, then again an animal half horse, half goat… Surely if we do not blush for such absurdities, we should at least regret what we have spent on them.”^[wikipedia]

At any rate, before realizing this creature was a grotesque, not a gargoyle, I had already begun writing. So, here’s the photo and my technically inaccurate effort. I’m not 100% satisfied with it yet, but it’s been a fun process.

The Gargoyle in the Woods

Settled in his sylvan lair
with a discontented air
Do you see him lurking there?
The gargoyle in the woods.

Living wood creates his bower
Gilded leaves upon him shower
yet he grows grimmer by the hour
The gargoyle in the woods.

What enchantment holds him here
Far from masonry and peer
Blind to nature’s atmosphere?
The gargoyle in the woods.

When darkness falls, does he arise,
raise clenched fists to stony skies
fill night-time air with bitter cries?
The gargoyle in the woods.

Molly Hogan (c)2016

Head on over to Irene Latham’s blog, Live Your Poem. She’s hosting Poetry Friday Roundup and you’re sure to discover some treasures there!

I headed into the woods yesterday. Alone. My husband was sick and after a short visit, the girls had returned to school. The house was too quiet and the day was too beautiful to stay indoors. I drove to a trail head near our house and dove into nature, seeking its comfort, wishing to loose myself in its wonders.

It was a full-on sensory autumnal day. The blustery wind whooshed through the trees, setting leaves dancing and rustling, and acorns periodically rained down, hitting the carpet of leaves with dull thuds. The sun danced through the trees, backlighting vibrant leaves and gilding paths carpeted with amber pine needles. Mushroom and funghi of all shapes and sizes peeked out from between leaves and under fallen logs and climbed the sides of trees.

It was a day for noticing and luxuriating in the small things–the clusters of mushrooms and bright red berries, and the way the golden ferns danced in the breeze. The warm, rich smell of earth and decaying leaves. The leaf rainbow rippling on the water. The chorus of wind-whipped leaves. I was drawn continually off the path to explore just one more scene, to investigate one more shadow. It was literally and figuratively a breath of fresh air and I reveled in it. Finally, feeling rebooted and ready for the week ahead, I turned toward home, once again overwhelmingly thankful to live in such a beautiful place. Sometimes all it takes is a walk in the woods.

Epilogue–As I climbed the hill heading back to my car, I realized I wasn’t alone in the woods. Someone with a quirky sense of humor had nestled this grumpy looking gargoyle in the base of a tree. I’m not sure he is getting as much pleasure from his sylvan home as I did!