it’s mid evening east of The Lake and the night is dawning like a second morning
the Full Moon’s light in a clearer sky gleams through the generous panes of this blessed, old green house
Moon’s rise / Her Light
February’s Snow Moon is glowing in a familiar dance with her beloved Earth/ Sun, their invisible chaperone, is voyeur to their touchless, perfect tango
a family of four deer mother and children, i think/ are gleaners here tonight while i consume their Moon play
silent and sitting in the dark, i admire: coat, tallow, hooves and hot, flow of blood is all that’s between them and this howling wind and frozen ground
let me mimic their resilience, integrity i’ve been so weak, so broken this winter a fractioned shadow, i am disintegrating, disappearing / my light given or grifted away
“The Distances They Keep”, Howard Nemerov, the blue swallows, 1967
this is no time to evict spiders, centipedes, the occasional, lone boxelder bug, dozens of out-of-season ladybird beetles or the almost-always odorless stinkbugs
from our houses
to do so now means certain death, outside
there is a field mouse in the dormant compost bin depositing black “rice” in washed egg shells and pomegranate rinds/
a mole engineers deeply excavated burrows around the foundation (much too close), mound-builds in the prairie, and constructs a minefield for toes and ankles in the remnant, dumb lawn/
the grey squirrels shelter in the woods across the snow-covered dirt road the red squirrel in the barn is insulating with stuffing from the patio cushions/
black walnuts, please mast next year oak sapling, pray, grow faster/
i will plant a meadow exclusively of sunflower come Spring/
black-eyed juncos, black-capped chickadees, bluejays, woodpeckers, and cardinals, but especially, the juncos have learned to tolerate, and expect my winter presence among them, per nemerov’s counsel, i don’t wear feathers in my cap – or coat/
the remaining turkey and deer still grieving, post-hunting season are tentative, but returning; i set out stone salt licks and millet, reverently, repentantly, respectfully, for them/
i count the crows each morning but truer, i count on them their steady, regal presence their voices call to me for sardines, kibble, peanuts i oblige and always will
[can] we all [can] live here alongside inside and outside together, as kin
i don’t speak but i telepath that, and this:
i am the residuum here
a wolf spider and their reflection / every spider should be presumed to be an incarnation of Anansi
I try to remember to say #Grace. I cut this out of a magazine years ago and have misplaced it many times. Now, I’ll have it here always. Grace of the #Bodhisattva #Buddhist