winter sun

poems, mists & motherhood

the Sun
at Solstice
shines straight through
our eastern window
and into
the fireplace

we couldn’t
have planned
that, nor
the many
mini miracles
that unfold
around us, daily.

but these
two lights,
meet
in the most
extraordinary
way
at sunrise

through crystallized snow
to white ash, red
flame, soft yellow
morning light

an illumination
i haven’t yet
found the words
to describe

(we are told to Prepare
for the spring)

Photo taken by author: morning goat walk into the forest

While the moon was still waxing, after a day of mighty heaving to meet the needs of living in a tiny yurt in the wilderness in Colorado winter, we heard a sound.

We all quieted down to listen, among the candle light and warm evening fire, as something new was speaking to us. I peeked through that eastern window and saw an ominous mist had settled up high, and was moving its way down the sloping mountain hills towards us. The night was quiet and still, dark and magnetizing a snowstorm, and then, there was that sound again…

Ah, the owl. Closer than we’ve ever heard, some 20 yards away, it was whoo-whooing, from that deep echoing inner chamber of its vocal cords, out into the stillness of a cold night, and into our ears, into some deep sense of remembering, into the humbled reception of mystery and winter.

And between it’s whoo-ing, it would make this sound, like ah-aaah, ah-aaah. Back and forth, as if between the question and the answer. Who? Aah. Who-whoo? Ah-aah!

I walked outside to be closer in this rare moment of beauty and as I stood there, it sounded very much like a seven foot tall man was standing right there, making some complex old language calling, like calculating or saluting or beckoning us to come closer, but beware because he might kill us in an instant. It felt like that. Like a very tall being was out there, from another world, standing over the goat pen, sounding in an ancient tongue.

I was decidedly spooked and hurried inside, as the mist descended and this creature vibrated its essence from its body and into ours. Amara learned that night the sound the owl makes, pointing her finger towards the northeastern wall, mimicking its sound.

We live in a circle.

I am realizing
trauma, and
sensing infinity
simultaneously -

light beneath
light,
how do we
exist
universally
and also
personally?

the great eye
of the sphinx,
golden black silence
and -
the sleep deprived
mother
cooking and soothing
sometimes burning and
hollering
all
at once…

how can
the depths
and the shallows
dance in balance?

the diapers
and the dreams
listening to the
mountain-star-speak
and my child scream -
I am
thoroughly
perplexed
by life’s beckoning

and yet,
the light
the water
reflections of
a rising moon at dusk,
holding
this beautiful innocence,
loving
beyond mind and memory,
I am
a daughter
of Old.

so old, no one seems
to remember it
anymore

but, then, somehow,
between dreams
and diapers
winter sun and rising
moon,
I am gathering
that light-loving
silica

that magnifies
stories living
in a beam
of light

I am,
sometimes
oftentimes
failing
to realize
the bigger picture.

Thank you for reading. We are looking forward to slowing down more and more, while quietly seeding and growing and listening to the land. I am curious to know how these poems and images and musings resonate with you, if at all! Please leave a comment with impressions, reflections, critiques, anything.  It’s always great to hear from readers.

Big love.