looking west
I stood upon the frozen creek obscured beneath a winter’s load of snow. I could hear the hushed flow far below. A whispered secret, between no one but the earth and me. I keep the riddle to myself and laugh at her subtle humor.
The boys return from town and tell me of mud lower on the mountain, in the valley, on the pastures, dry ground along the road. The tell me of a friend they see riding a bicycle and it is beyond my recognition here and now when our reliance on snowshoes, snowmobiles and skis remains absolute.
Somewhere there is brown, somewhere there is green. Here so far from such imaginings, the whiteness is complete.
light on the snow of the frozen reservoir
I walk in the afternoon and think of what will be. Balanced on the snows surface with my broad plastic shoes, each step separated from the earth’s potential by this crystalline lag.
I walk the lands where brown waters will flow and iris will grow and the mountain will shiver in an ecstatic burst of new life. The earth will give birth in a passionate display to spring, to life, to color, to promise.
But for now, she continues to rest, to wait, to loiter.
a view of simpson mountain
Before me is the East Pond, a still carpet of smooth white that only my memory suggests the joyous song of the frogs. When, pray tell, will you sing this year? Spring will be late, but your chant will resonate when the timing is right, not by a calendar’s page but by a soft and slight sign only you will recognize. May I be so lucky to hear you once again? And who will hear you when I’m gone? How odd to think no one has before, no one may again. And how little it matters to you.
For now I wallow in the great expanse like an infinite void allowing me to remain present, denying the impending, the inevitable. The future. What will it bring for us? The mountain holds no crystal ball but the answers are scattered deep in her woods like dried leaves of seasons past, and float easily on her running waters.
I am as ready to burst forth as the spring season, exploding with burning life. I wish to leap, trusting the net will appear. But my feet are immovable, stuck in this deep snow. I am held motionless, in limbo, lingering in the wide white divide.
The snow, the very thing that comforts us, allows us peace and solitude, is that which threatens. My mare must be led out in the next ten days. I look around and wonder how. I know not where we will be in only months time, and again I look around…
Bittersweet blessings. That which brings me solace is at times my demise.
Just another day of life. And each experience another piece to this magnificent, intricate puzzle of which we are so fortunate to be a part.
snow and ice on a spruce between aspen