Even though I no longer like the cold weather, for some reason my body is missing the frigid walks along the waters edge. The north wind slicing through layers and layers of sweaters and scarves and jackets like a very cold butter knife. And I seem to be expecting the fog to settle in and gray skies to be all I see except here, its sunny and not cold but dont get me wrong its not warm.
Its the blue skies so far that have me stunned in a good way because that fog would get in my mind and cover my eyes and my mouth until I was suffocated in its grieving heartless grayness.
I can live with not cold but not warm and the blue sky can visit my morning window all it wants cause this might be the last place I live and I will gladly die here in the blue skyness of it all.
the old pear tree
reluctant to give way
to solstice light
stays green, each branch
a banner to its spring heart
until one day,
one leaf, blood red
as summers sunset
is cast off
to fend for itself
in the cold winters wind
and the tree relinquishes its hold
to autumns desire
In one week, I am leaving the house on the cove in the center of the Ozarks.
We have lived in this home for over 18 years and in the Ozarks for over 30. This land is one of the great loves of my life.
But now we leave.
Moving one thousand miles to the east. To the foothills of the Smoky Mountains and a new life.
I will miss this land of steep ridges and deep fern green hollows. And I don’t know how my writing will change. This beloved land has been my muse for now much of my adult life.
I am excited for this new adventure. And it has all happened with such suddenness and energy that I have no doubt it is exactly what and where we are supposed to be.
And with that certainty, I have little grief over leaving. I know I am being given another great love of my life in our new home. A home very much like my beloved shack in Arkansas, but this time tucked into the foothills of the Smoky Mountains in a small village in western North Carolina.
My husband is going home to the state of his birth and home to his family.
We are both going home to a place we never dreamed of until a few months ago.
I will keep in touch, Dear Reader, and I will find a voice in that new place and my writing will follow its course – The Course of Our Seasons – a new and beautiful adventure.
Its all or nothing with you
as I watch you tear down the structures
that have captivated you for so long.
Pulling apart the seams
and rending the fabric
of the garment we have patched
and mended for oh these many years.
It is a changeable time and the east wind has done its work
turning everyones inner world topsy turvy.
How long will this breeze blow and when will the dust settle
to show a clear view of the remnants left
to weave and quilt and patch together
enough to bring us comfort and warmth
on a cold winters day.
Great gray stones leave the bank of the river,
stacked with their brethren
between the old cedar trees.
One upon one,
they stand together, shoulder
in deep, masculine force.
Over decades, they settle.
Some, restless, move again
toward the river.
Most hold fast, remembering
Until, one morning
after the first spring storm of April,
in Springs push
the old stone wall shudders,
and with a deep sigh,
*** We went out after the last storm and our old rock wall had fallen. The chipmunks had loosened the soil, giving the rain a place to wash out behind the stones. And it just gave way.
We will restack and make it whole again, but who knows how long ago those stones had been carted up from the river and stacked with their brethren.
in the pond, I saw
ribbons glistening with fragile
black polka dots of life
as though a special present
was joyfully torn open
and the wrappings left
to fend for themselves
lovely elegant skeins
filled with the future
ink dotted children
black comma’ed offspring
creatures of water and air
neither fish nor fowl
born to one elemental force
alive in the gullied water
finding legs within
to leap to the essential element
air lunged full
in the oxygen sky
tree filled world
of moss, mud and marsh
tiny metamorphic saints of change
chanting in the afternoon rain