Here and Elsewhere
The earth is covered with ice so Star and I slide,
step gingerly, slip, onto our morning walk.
But it’s winter and we expect to hide inside
quite a bit, are not surprised when silence beats out talk.
The anomaly is when we go out to a bookclub
and are encircled with articulate insights,
friendly connections, a snack, and the good luck
of being taken in by friends for lunch and invites
to be one of the family at their home, the beauty of its site
overlooking the river, the gift of friendship,
warmth and colour inside, where outside all is white,
part of their diversions and the troubles that they blend with.
We’re ready for winter here, armed against the blank cold
by connection and good luck and care. The outer world
sends in its message, much of which is only the old
dooms and damages that go on and on, the good all curled
inside the icy shell of harm and hurt that freeze
and lock in the babble and talk of that other form of matter
when days were warm and breath a sweet sigh not a wheeze.
Something surprising separates itself from the general spatter
of doings in the world, where upside down is common,
where ignorance has had its day and cause had its effect,
where summer lands are frozen cold, political straw men
bought by death, the lands of blind men wrecked,
where winter isn’t planned for, and power’s out
and minds numbed with unknowing and fallen to defeat,
and from our distant view we want to shout
how wrong our species are, and then comes something sweet.
Cold though they are hundreds of volunteers search seas
for turtles who without them would all die.
They fill their coliseum with thousands of rescuees
to bring them into warmth until blue skies
will bring the season right and we get our next chance
to take our place in nature and recognize the rules
we’re not exempt from, thaw out our limbs and dance
each as our species will, not follow after fools.
In another virtual sight, a towering folly falls,
and even though these are small moments in the rush
of good and bad and mindlessness over all,
when dynamite brings evil down cheers break the hush
of hopelessness. The way the symbol crumbles
tells that though wrong has its day, freezes good sense, it melts.
We huddle, our feet slip, we’re humbled
in winter’s grip, then the world moves on to something else.
The earth is covered with ice so Star and I slide,
step gingerly, slip, onto our morning walk.
But it’s winter and we expect to hide inside
quite a bit, are not surprised when silence beats out talk.
The anomaly is when we go out to a bookclub
and are encircled with articulate insights,
friendly connections, a snack, and the good luck
of being taken in by friends for lunch and invites
to be one of the family at their home, the beauty of its site
overlooking the river, the gift of friendship,
warmth and colour inside, where outside all is white,
part of their diversions and the troubles that they blend with.
We’re ready for winter here, armed against the blank cold
by connection and good luck and care. The outer world
sends in its message, much of which is only the old
dooms and damages that go on and on, the good all curled
inside the icy shell of harm and hurt that freeze
and lock in the babble and talk of that other form of matter
when days were warm and breath a sweet sigh not a wheeze.
Something surprising separates itself from the general spatter
of doings in the world, where upside down is common,
where ignorance has had its day and cause had its effect,
where summer lands are frozen cold, political straw men
bought by death, the lands of blind men wrecked,
where winter isn’t planned for, and power’s out
and minds numbed with unknowing and fallen to defeat,
and from our distant view we want to shout
how wrong our species are, and then comes something sweet.
Cold though they are hundreds of volunteers search seas
for turtles who without them would all die.
They fill their coliseum with thousands of rescuees
to bring them into warmth until blue skies
will bring the season right and we get our next chance
to take our place in nature and recognize the rules
we’re not exempt from, thaw out our limbs and dance
each as our species will, not follow after fools.
In another virtual sight, a towering folly falls,
and even though these are small moments in the rush
of good and bad and mindlessness over all,
when dynamite brings evil down cheers break the hush
of hopelessness. The way the symbol crumbles
tells that though wrong has its day, freezes good sense, it melts.
We huddle, our feet slip, we’re humbled
in winter’s grip, then the world moves on to something else.