Late snow on branches, cold bright sun,
saying names aloud of those not seen
for too many years, so loudly that
some snow slides off the evergreen needles,
melting into the Earth and into memory.
The photo I use here reminds me of the first two lines of Emily Dickinson’s poem.
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons —
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes
this mild winter, equinox a line away
on the wall calendar, hurrying snow flurries
that will not stay, friends and family
home safe and healthy on this day,
content in this moment, hopeful future moments.
My poem’s title alludes to the line from Shakespeare’s Richard III, “Now is the winter of our discontent…” and I also think of how John Steinbeck used the line for the title of his The Winter of Our Discontent
The jays, protectors of forests, today protect
the St. Francis statue. These blue messengers
of the gods and to loved ones,
afterlife helpers who mate for life, busily
screaming at shared enemies in my dream.
If you are interested in learning more about blue jay symbolism
and spiritual meanings, see https://thebirdguide.com/blue-jays-symbolism/
Afternoon of moments in a minor key.
Songs I would have sung with guitar
on a day like this while you
sat in bed, the covers pulled up,
bare shoulders, tea steaming in your hand,
jasmine air, the hours have a different
sound, emotional feel, and time passes harmonically.
This chord is solemn, sad, maybe mysterious,
ominous if we let our light fade.
Each minor key shares a key signature
with a major key and I need
to find that again while you move
to piano to play that D minor.
So melancholy, a lamentation, dirge or requiem.
I walk across the snow and sand
to the lifeguard stand and climb up.
It’s a place I certainly never belonged
in my youth. Never a strong swimmer,
never an athletic body, no secret desire
to save lives. Well, maybe to save
a few girls I knew who then
would be indebted to me, in love
with their hero. I would rescue them
from the riptides of their undeserving boyfriends.
open a season of fasting and prayer.
This morning, a white dusting of snow.
This afternoon, black dust that we are,
and to which we will all return.
For those who still need a reminder.
Writing the Day 