I marvel at the snow mark designs, as I tromp my wooded landscape.
Hoof prints precisely etched, step-by-step, deep in drifts. A pattern of an elegant waltz scattered on forest hill. Talons too mingle like confetti in powdered earth. I wonder, did they dance a Irish Jig in the middle of winter’s moonlit night? Rabbit paws join the collage of artistry. Soft pose, graceful pirouettes, and tender plié of prints; long leaps of a ballet routine is that what I missed as I slept through arctic night?
Did they worship? Did they pray? Did they fellowship. Or did they bath in thankfulness beneath the Light which lit their path? Giant pines fenced in the event, banks of snow make still the bustle, and an open heaven of moonlight tumbled from the heavens. A flurry of activity occurred here last evening and in the morning light I can only dream.
Simple earth creatures
in midnight memories praise…
against pale, powdered snow.
Fuyu No Tsuki–Winter Moon–dVerse Haibun Monday at dVerse. What marks your snow?
There’s a buzz about town. I sit in my thirty-foot pine haven. Wrens frantically feeding young. A filament of rainbow web dangles, as busy spiders labor. The lush green of Erin has surrounded my poetic voice for over twenty-five years. The melody of wind through marsh grass, the rhythm of throaty frogs on tuffs of ground, and the chorus of humming garden bugs sing of home. Not this day. Thousands have found my paradise.
Knee-high rough fescue,
Thirty-foot towering pine,
My hiding place found!
Living about three miles from Erin Hills Golf Course has been interesting this week. Farm fields turned into parking lots, new highway signs pointing to the BIG event, and unending traffic. It’s like being in the eye of a storm. Hopefully, there’ll be no tornadoes the next few days!
My father was a quiet man, as men born then often were, the world so different then. Orphaned at 10, scarcely educated, lived through WWI and the Great US Depression, and fought at Pearl Harbor. These things all left scars.
When the boys came home from war he tried to live a normal life. Married at 40 and father at 42, life moved on. Still horrid memories followed. He stored canned goods in the cellar, woke frequently with bad nightmares, and drank when no one was looking.
I hold one treasured childhood memory of the two of us. At about age four, I sat on his knee as he sang. He wasn’t a singing man. Don’t think I ever heard him sing again. I recall the curves of his face as he smiled a big toothy grin. As I bounced to his sour tune, my heart was made sweet. Looking in his dark brown eyes I heard him say, “But the Yellow Rose of Texas is the only girl for me.” For those tender moments the scars of sorrow had melted away.
Yellow is the rose…
forward to the Promised Land;
where songs will blossom.
“The Yellow Rose of Texas” was made popular by Mitch Miller in 1955. The US song dates back to the states Civil War times. It’s lyrics have changed, as history passes. It topped the music charts from February to October back in 1955. There’s another rose dear to me. “For it we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.” I Thessalonians 4:14
As an infant, I recall the old maple tree’s leaf shadows frolicking across the bedroom walls. This is my earliest memory. The umbra of the crib sheltered me while the flicker of light played tag with the afternoon shade. I must have pondered this display, as a child does in the newness of the world, for the memories have traveled a lifetime’s journey.
Now, I play shadow games with my grandchildren. We stroll darken forest paths or build sand castles in the shade of another maple tree, as the sweltering sun hangs in the summer sky. The same sun, but new shadows fill my days. The crib no longer my sanctuary; I am hidden under the care of something, SOMEONE, greater.
Above… heaven’s gate;
souls seek refuge in shadows.
The Almighty waits…
“He who dwells in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” Psalm 91:1
Who doesn’t remember playing with shadows? Over at dVerse poets are taking shadows to the next step. Stop in.