066/365

The vixen is calling again in the night

Raspy anguished cries that hardly seem likely,

to my human presumptions,

to attract anything,

except my condolences.

And yet somewhere in the moon lit trees

her suitors are inevitably smiling

 

All around me things are shifting

creeks solid with ice and snow

suddenly crack and open,

wide and brown and vocal

People and animals and things, are taking wing and leaving

some, like gangly fledglings pushed from the nest

others gone but for the faint sound of distant beating wings.

 

Mostly, I can see the good

in sliced wrists and broken hearts,

returning to roots and spring cleaning lives

But there are moments when I'm bogged down

the fresh mud and thawing mounds of dogs' spent meals

mountains of expired food and piles of confused questions

collecting at my feet

The uncertainty of so many things I cannot control

a lesson in release and trust

 

These are the simple truths

The vixen will call, again and again

every spring

and the magpies will be busy at their nests all day

The same streams that meander in the heat of July will rage in March

and this too shall pass

Where there is change,

there is life.

 

 

 

018/365

The old man has died. 

Taken his slow and tired steps into the valley away from the crowd and laid down amongst the trees, signs of his last moments spent running against air and dreams as if chasing one last bovine opponent into the world beyond.

013/365

The scene initially looks macabre, a pile of still bodies at a wet entrance, still more resting easily within the sparkling snow around the hive.  But in this season, when the Chinook winds blow and the temperature climbs just slightly above freezing, this is a sign of life within.  This is what living and housekeeping  and (I would say) mourning looks like - if one were a honeybee.

005/365

They bravely climbed the steps today

a first among a day of firsts

up into the body of this yellow bus

 

Without the expected hug after hug after hug from the littlest one

With the expected stoic sureness of the oldest

-busy memorizing bus numbers and paths to his brothers classroom door-

With the unexpected nervousness tucked tight in their mama's belly

 

I do not know how such handsome bodies

have come from mine

Where their bravery comes from

Their never ending enthusiasm for the adventures of life

 

And yet they arrive home safely to me

spilling bodies and stories and smiles, from the yellow of this bus

at the end of a day spent steeped in new

and I see that they will do just fine

perfectly even

in this great big beautiful world



001/365 Bodies

My body, your body, their bodies.  Bodies of work.
Bodies of water. 
The goal?
Be expansive, interactive, inclusive, impulsive, inspiring, compelling. Speak truth, explore fantasy.  Document.

Silence

There is a soft snowfall this morning

and the trees are perfectly kissed with white

 

and there is silence here

 

A kind of quiet that is anything but

Chickadees happily chatting

throwing spent husks over their shoulders

a steady bombing of miniscule refuse onto the deck below

Pages of books slowly turning against the sound of another's breath

the way the chimney talks in response to the fires heat

soft pops and creaks

a steady heartbeat of warming steel

 

There is silence here

 

We fall easily into this life

Breathing deeper and moving slower

Hands on hips in tiny spaces

become a slow dancing conversation

necessary for sharing small distances

 hot stove and cold winter air

Mere footsteps between

 

There is silence here

 

the kind of quiet that sinks into a soul

rhythmic and wild and

pulsing with life

Elusive in worlds shared with forced air furnaces

and TV's

 

If mittened hands clasped tight

and roughened beards against smooth cheeks cannot be heard

then what more are we missing?

 

There is silence here

Have you seen

amongst this square and empty screen

the thoughts? Bouncing and careening off the walls, then

floating by on whispy clouds

 

Nothing has been tangible

No cohesive joining together in a way to tell you

how I am

what I've been up to

(you'd have to come to tea for that)

 

I would miss this place

except for that its make believe

Devised space to create the illusion of connection

which it does in its own way

(I cannot argue that)

 

More than missing this space

I miss the block of text

the current date stamp

A sort of to do list checked off for a chunk of time.

 

And I miss the words

Mine,

 and then yours

weaving together and blending

becoming snapshots of moments

A photo album of moods.