let this all be poetry

notes from the pine grove

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“We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and mystery.”

—H. G. Wells

I step to the rhythm of neighborhood voices—the knock of a downy woodpecker, a collaborative chorus between the cardinals, robins and sparrows mixed with the occasional laughter from a family of crows. 

This is the only form of conversation I would like to engage with today. 

The sap is rising. The buds are swelling. I am reaching out towards the sun. 

I search for the perfect pine cone to bring back to you.

I am sorry that I needed to take this walk alone.

I keep thinking about wolves. One wolf really. A mother affectionately called White Scarf, who led her pack through six years of harsh winter and incessant hunger. Taught her children the art of the hunt. Sacrificing another baby in order to save her own. When the time comes, she enjoys one last meal among her kin. Making sure their bellies are full and they’re drifting safely to sleep before wandering out of sight to close her eyes for the final time. 

For weeks after, Ellesmere Island is filled with the sound of her family’s howls. Begging her to come back home. 

“How do you resist the lure to take you away from all you long to do?” - Holly Wren Spaulding

There are still white tips of snow lined trees glimmering against the pale blue sky. 

The daffodils bloom despite this. 

“I want to live for a time without irony, without rhetoric, in a cool, solid metaphor. A conch shell, that would be nice.” - Carol Shields

There are some birds whose species are dying so rapidly that their songs are disappearing from the soundtrack of our world.  

I keep track of the constellation of beauty marks that are slowly unfurling across your face. 

On Tuesday I will bake you a cake adorned with two lit candles in the shape of mushrooms. 

Age is a bittersweet gift that only the passing of seasons can bring. 

I am trying to figure out how to bend time.