New Day

I feel OK about the new foot of snow because look what I had this morning: A sunup like this, all that warm buttery light just beginning to play on the face of the house across the street.

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That and the crocuses, ready to push up through the snow once again and brandish their short pale-purple swords. ( I know they’re under there; I saw their tips just the other day.)

How can we NOT hope now, with the days at last longer than the nights?

Here is my favorite poem about faith in things unseen. The last line is just the best in my book.  The poem is called Green Feathers and it’s by Reg Saner:

Five minutes till dawn and a moist breath of pine resin comes to me as from across a lake.

It smells of wet lumber, naked and fragrant.

In the early air we keep trying to catch sight of something lost up ahead,

A moment when the light seems to have seen us Exactly as we wish we were.

Like a heap of green feathers poised on the rim of a cliff?

Like a sure thing that hasn’t quite happened?

Like a marvelous idea that won’t work? Routinely amazing –

How moist tufts, half mud, keep supposing almost nothing is hopeless.

How the bluest potato grew eyes on faith the light would be there.

And it was.

All that faith! AND the lush image of moss!

Now to pull my boots back on and dig out more of these sword-blades.

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Mossy Thoughts

They’re calling it an end-of-summer heat wave but it doesn’t feel like that to me. Whether temps shoot over 90° in the days or not, the nights are cool. It was over 90° here yesterday but just 65° at night and a simple window fan made me feel as cool as moss by a forest pond.

I love moss and admire its short not-askin’-for-much root system that lets it take hold wherever it finds itself. I love too the way it sports that jaunty green-velvet jacket. At dawn today I looked out the window and saw an earth that looked springy and fresh and a far cry indeed from the parched and yearning thing it was so lately.

I live near the ocean, if 8 miles can be called near, and when the wind comes out of the east and the clouds roll in, the blood-heavy smell of it fills every corner. You feel manacled almost, tangled about the ankles in seaweed, with small sucky things fixing on your limbs.

It’s fine to feel that way on those east-wind days; it’s just another way to feel. But it’s not how I feel today. Today the sun shines and I mean to set short roots in my own forest floor and be happy for what is…. And, in that cheery spirit, this short hopeful verse by Colorado poet Reg Saner about moss:

Green Feathers

Five minutes till dawn and a moist breath of pine resin comes to me as from across a lake.

It smells of wet lumber, naked and fragrant.

In the early air we keep trying to catch sight of something lost up ahead,

A moment when the light seems to have seen us Exactly as we wish we were.

Like a heap of green feathers poised on the rim of a cliff?

Like a sure thing that hasn’t quite happened?

Like a marvelous idea that won’t work?

Routinely amazing

How moist tufts, half mud, keep supposing  almost nothing is hopeless.

How the bluest potato grew eyes on faith the light would be there.

And it was.