4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.