
Last year
I learned that robins serenade the sunset
and ring in the twilight
with their lovely, mysterious trills.
A near one calls
and a distant soloist answers like an echo,
repeating the same refrain.
What do they say?
There is peace if you look?
God is near?
Be still. Be still. Be still....?
I learned that even a lonely song
sung together
can be comforting.
Last year
I learned that winter light glows
over bare, grey trees and dead grass fields.
Almost-sunset-light all day,
the blue-white light of summer bends over,
leaning, painted gold,
on all the browns of winter's monochrome,
While the sky is still its brilliant blue.
The shadows of tall trees fall long
at noon,
painting the country highway with stripes,
decorations for Winter Solstice.
I learned that dark and bare and stark
hold promise.
Last year
I learned to smell my hands,
A bouquet of hints that tell the story of my day.
Pungent spicy cilantro, chopped for tacos.
Bright, clean, awake tickle of sliced lemon,
yellow scent of health.
Powdery, fresh cuddle smell of baby shampoo,
speaking of the last chore today
long snuggle
tiny, clean person who wakes so many times
but says "Hi. Hi. Hi. Mama."
and fits the curve of my neck so well.
I learned that the stories need telling
and inhaling and exhaling
and it matters how they're told.
Last year
I learned that turning away and turning in
are armor
from confusion and the startling sting
sometimes of love, but
are poison.
Poison that feels like strength at first:
it helps you float
in turbulent seas.
But sometimes you need to dive to live.
And then the styrofoam pads
are so tight and numerous that
you are just stuck, immobile, drifting.
Message sent is not message received.
"This hurts. Please be gentle."
sounds like
"I don't care."
And then there are more arrows to invite me to care.
So taking off my armor
Feels like naked in public.
Feels risky.
Feels like target-standing.
But a hug with steel plates on
doesn't really work, so
I learned to hold on
instead of turn away.
Last year I learned
to survive.
to look
to stop
to notice
I learned that it's alright to be in winter
or dusk
or a busy, messy kitchen.
I learned my armor puts up walls.
This year I will learn a new armor.
And maybe Spring.