January
This morning, a dozen black-headed, white-bottomed ducks, paddling through the ice on the river.
[I lead such] an internal life – short on adventure and anecdote. Who but me cares that the falcon was in the garden today; the flicker at the feeder? Filling up my tiny garden with their large bird selves. Or that I am up in the night, needy for sleep, but unable to track it. Listening to my dog chew his bone.
No light in the sky tonight – first quarter moon, they say, but I can't find that, either.
Building a life from pain and small-moon nights; from sparrows and finches and box elder bugs. The things one notices in the day, and in the wide night hours.
Looking for the dark (or the light) that will fold one in.
February
The garden is full of chickadees this morning, and snow. Not a single sparrow.
the shadow
of snow
on snow
awakened
by freight train whistle
the full moon
A large bird flies over the skylight. Abigail sees a flash of light; I see the wings' dark shadow.
On reading my [02003] Solstice Letter, Abigail observes that most people live their (busy) lives "horizontally", along the surface; but I live "vertically"; that I have the time and space this requires.
Time. Space. The gifts of illness.
March
"A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." Thomas Mann
Amidst signs of early spring -- soggy lawns, bare pavement, dirty snow, rain -- Abigail leaves today for England.
This house will seem empty.
This morning, from habit, I put on my down jacket and gloves to go out with the dogs, and we step into a bright spring day.
Warm sun. It makes me want to
go up
in a float planeand come down
at Tenakee Springs.
Thursday 11 March 02004: This morning, a family of Canada geese is floating under the bridge. Momma, papa, and four goslings, serenely ignoring a loud, harassing crow. We often have ducks, but I've never seen geese raise their families here. Perhaps they are passing through.
Why, on this day with another 190 dead from terrorism, do I find this consoling?
wind chimes | chicadees | the tick-tick-tick
of snow melting | down the drainpipe
Buddhism in Seven Words, from Jane Hirshfield: Everything changes, everything is connected; pay attention.
From Overlap via lime tree: Poetry has the capacity to deal with the nonevents of life in a way that other art forms couldn't possibly manage.
who regrets
the passing of winter
the coming of spring?
Yesterday, a note from my aunt telling me that Mom had taken my stepfather to the hospital. My mother would not have told me so quickly, not wanting to worry me. He's there now for a few days, "observation", though the doctors assure us it is most likely a medication reaction; a minor problem.
He is 92 and slowly diminishing. Is there a "minor problem" at 92?
the spider
weaves her web
in the windchimes
Yesterday it was 78 degrees here, a record high. I sat in my garden with my notebook. I've hardly had a pen in my hand since I began this weblog. Noisy spring, birds and squirrels courting and quarreling, a wasp cruising the edge of the pond.
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