A Seedling

Benoit Trimborn

A seedling shoulders up some crumbs of ground:

The fields are suddenly green for miles around.

HO-O

fr. A Net of Fireflies

translated by Harold Stewart

Sneaky spring. She did it again.

Reluctance

Andrew Wyeth

Reluctance

Out through the fields and the woods

   And over the walls I have wended;

I have climbed the hills of view

   And looked at the world, and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

   And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

   Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

   And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

   When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

   No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

   The flowers of the witch hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

   But the feet question ‘Whither?’

Ah, when to the heart of man

   Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

   To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

   Of a love or a season?

Robert Frost

A dear family member of mine has recently died. With his passing, it feels as if a season of my life has ended. As if the time of plenty, of warmth is over; and I look around, surprised at the change, even though I expected it. Frost speaks so gracefully, “ I have climbed the hills of view/ And looked at the world, and descended;/I have come by the highway home,/And lo, it is ended.”. That‘s how I feel. And like he says, I don’t want to “bow and accept the end”, not so quickly or easily – no. I want to walk and look while thinking and remembering, I want to soak up all the benefits, all the riches of knowing and loving S, I want to stay here awhile and be still.

Evening

Clifford Webb

Evening

From upland slopes I see the cows file by,

Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail,

By dusking fields and meadows shining pale

With moon-tipped dandelions. Flickering high,

A peevish night-hawk in the western sky

Beats up into the lucent solitudes,

Or drops with gliding wing. The stilly woods

Grow dark and deep, and gloom mysteriously.

Cool night winds creep, and whisper in mine ear.

The homely cricket gossips at my feet.

From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear,

Clear and soft-piped, the chanting frogs break sweet

In full Pandean chorus. One by one

Shine out the stars, and the great night comes on.

Archibald Lampman

“Meadows shining pale with moon-tipped dandelions.”

“The stilly woods grow dark and deep…”

 I have an image of a box being passed to me with this poem inside it, a gift I can enjoy over and over again. I put it in my pocket and carry it with me wherever I go, wherever life takes me. I don’t know Lampman, and he doesn’t know me, but we share this place, this moment - and it’s beautiful.

Snow Flakes

Ian Stephens

Snow-Flakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



Snow as an expression of grief.  I don’t usually associate snow with pain, but as I read and reread this poem, it begins to make sense. Longfellow explains that the things on our mind sometimes seem to come to life in the world around us, to take shape in nature. So his hidden and long-held close  grief seems to express itself in snowfall. Like frozen tears, maybe. That line, “Slowly in silent syllables recorded.” is beautiful – and isn’t it true? People don’t always say what’s on their hearts, but it shows in silent ways, it comes out in choices, in little actions, it gives itself away even while we try to hold it back. Is that what Longfellow means by “the secret of despair”? The wanting to hide our pain? I hope nature will speak for us, too, when we are unable.