Ode to a Winter Storm

Slush and snow
Gray sky and biting wind
White roofs and slippery roads

I watch from my window
Warm and dry…
Safe inside

Death of a Daffodil

Sad little daffodil,
where is your yellow glow?
You’re all shriveled up and brown.
Where did your bright light go?

First a seed and then a bud
and then a happy flower.
Quick to bloom and then to fade.
It’s not your finest hour.

Interesting little daffodil
There is one good thing.
Your death gives way to future joys-
New flowers in the spring!

Snow

Soft snow falls from the sky
It gathers on branches and cold roof tops
It dusts birds and unprotected evergreens
It brings peace.

The Life Cycle of a Flower

We love to see and smell their fullness,
and we pluck them off carelessly,
tossing them aside when they die.

But how do they feel?

Do buds strain to come forth?

Do they struggle to come to life—
to bloom
to wither
to die
to make room for new blooms

Do they weep
for joy
for pain
for beauty
for loss

Be kind to the flowers,
for their life is ours.

Fog

There is something about fog,
mysterious and intriguing,
the way it covers up
all manner of things
and then reveals them slowly
as if to give us time to make sense of it all.

There is something about fog,
quiet and peaceful,
the way it muffles sounds
in blankets of stillness
and then strangely distorts them
as if to make us listen more closely.

There is something about fog,
thick and moist,
the way it leaves its mark
in dew and dampness
and then disappears completely
as if to remind us to dry our own tears.

Spring Rain

See the saturated clouds
flinging off their excess
so they can float
freely in the heavy air.

See the mighty maple
casting off its seedling bundles,
weak and hearty alike
given to their fate and the will of God.

See the timid chipmunk
scurrying out of the downspout
finally realizing
that its safe, warm nest is not the shelter it sought.

See me, discovering some hidden bravery,
throwing off my winter of angst
and allowing myself to bask in the joy
of the spring rain.

Spring Thaw

Spring thaw, still ice on the roof,
but the full gutters are singing.

The snow piles are shrinking,
undermined by rivers of melt.

Nature is shaking herself free
and stretching after the long hibernation.

As am I. Still wearing fleece and down,
but I can raise my thawing soul to the sun.

There is still some ice in my bones,
but my full heart is singing.

Haiku for a Basement Bug

Life is hard enough
without a big stomping foot
so just let it be

Dead Leaves

The trees shed their leaves
as part of nature’s plan.
The dead leaves enrich the soil
and snuff out the choking weeds,
paving the way for new growth in the spring.

But urban humans
have a different plan.
The dead leaves need to be
raked up and hauled away.
We can’t be reminded of death and decay.

When did we decide that groomed lawns
were better than wild flowers?
When did we start to assume that we could
change our fate by hiding the evidence.
When did we forget what dead leaves are for?

We need to cover ourselves in dead leaves,
letting that blanket connect us
to all we have lost.
We need to die and decay
and pave the way for our own new growth in the spring.

Morningsong

What makes you so happy, little winged ones?
What fills your hearts with songs?

Is it the morning sun?
Is it the offered seeds?

Are you singing to your mates,
or your chicks, or your God?

I wish I could understand you,
so I too could sing a joyful morningsong.