...here's my hand, a ghazal for the year's turn

sometimes watch your thoughts: leaves floating by on a stream

other times, hunt your thoughts down, be a predator

the witness knows which thoughts pass, which to devour

in winter earth’s summer colors fly into sky

a fleet sunset blooming, light cultivating cloud

gold, purple, red—our color-hungry eyes are fed

young moon brighter and brighter in deepening dusk

the slim curve brimming with night, someone bear witness:

three small birds swoop down to drink the moon’s reflection 

a dust mote in god’s light, call it a galaxy,

a universe, call it me, how else would god see?

whirl on tiny one, small world, trust immensity  

silent as sunlight, in this timeless way I move

whose hands hold the strings that pull the tides, rock my bones?

my feet are wind in the grass, watch me disappear

beloved friends, the world ends again and again

with each death, each year, each turn of an ancient wheel

beginning takes fierce courage, wild faith, here’s my hand.

 

Six Months of Sunrise: Joyous Feasts of Light

Six months ago come Christmas Day my husband and I moved from our house in the woods in the fold of a stream valley to High Valley. Because of the pond (affectionately known as Lake Almosta) there is much more sky, much more places from which to observes the comings and goings of great celestial bodies. It has become my practice to go outside and greet the sun every morning, veiled in clouds or not. It has been thrilling to track the sun’s journey to the southeastern sky and my own corresponding trek around the pond to catch the first light. 

Winter cold has not been a deterrent, and I have discovered that no matter how unpromising the dawn looks from inside, outside it is always an event. The birds agree, and I always look to see which ones are gathered in the bare top of the tallest spruce, which accommodates hawks, crows, and sparrows by turns.

 Many people see dawn because they have to commute. All three of my jobs are right here, so I get to see the sunrise only because I want to. Sometimes I think it matters, that greeting the sun is one of our tasks as humans. The practice has changed my life and gotten me through a major depression, which now seems to be lifting. When I can, I watch the sunset, too.

 If I ran for president (or perhaps ruler of the world) my platform would be simple. Everyone stop everything at sunrise and sunset. Just be still and remember where you are: riding through bright dark unfathomable immensity on a whirling, circling, beautiful bit of dust.

I close with some December poems in the form of tanka (5-7-5-7-7 syllables)
Wishing you all joyous feasts of light as the year dawns!

night
 outside my window
the intricacy of trees
by winter revealed
black sinuous branches bared
leaf-bereft, ablaze with stars

grey  

whatever weather
all mornings are beautiful
when you are outside
this one: grey, soft as my cat
warm wind swirling clouds and trees 

moon and sun

across the dance floor
bright dim dawn and evening skies
the two dancers gaze
moon and sun in earth’s dark wings
bathed in their love light I spin 

ice 

winter made a rough draft
a sketchy sheet of thin ice
erased by warm rain
now back to the blank wet pond
with a cold determined wind

triple sunrise

first clearing earth’s rim
then one cloud and another
thrice I greet the sun
each time the brightest of stars
a match struck to light the world