Diane, at Random Noodling , hosts the Poetry Friday Roundup
We will not be at our beloved farm this winter, a thought that fills me with sadness. The farm will be beautiful in winter, as it is in every other season. I can close my eyes and just picture it, shrouded in snow, enveloped in winter stillness and peace.
Here in New Jersey it’s raining. Banks of leaves rise at the edge of every street, waiting for that final collection of the year. And rivers of rainwater cascade and collect in unlikely and inconvenient places. The yard is still green, and winter seems far away even as we close in on Christmas.
I am waiting for winter grace…
If you have seen the snow
under the lamppost
piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table
or somewhere slowly falling
into the brook
to be swallowed by water,
then you have seen beauty
and know it for its transience.
And if you have gone out in the snow
for only the pleasure
of walking barely protected
from the galaxies,
the flakes settling on your parka
like the dust from just-born stars,
the cold waking you
as if from long sleeping,
then you can understand
how, more often than not,
truth is found in silence,
how the natural world comes to you
if you go out to meet it,
its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,
its vacant birdhouses, and dens
full of the sleeping.
But this is the slowed-down season
held fast by darkness
and if no one comes to keep you company
then keep watch over your own solitude.
In that stillness, you will learn
with your whole body
the significance of cold
and the night,
which is otherwise always eluding you.