ore is smelted first
blasted dark in the furnace
to emerge, reforged
Morning.
No matter how you slept, or did not sleep, as surely as night, it follows.
Morning. Waking. Bemusement. Despair-resistant gratitude. Determination.
wisping frost feathers
a celestial marabou
eider scarf cirrus
More poetry at Tabatha’s; The Opposite of Indifference
So grateful we got the beetle-killed pine trees removed from the yard. They warned us about the wind, but the rain – fabulous, wonderful storm! – is not playing either, and the hill out back? Is 99% mud and 1% stubborn roots, hanging on. There’s a river running down the street.
water drills through stone
likewise, incessant raindrops
erode my thinking
It has been gray, gray, gray with layers of fog on top for days now, which honestly has suited my mood down to the ground. Even on bright blue days, however, we have the fog. We always have the fog, thanks to this town’s proximity to various bays and inlets. For miles, ’til it reaches the tulle fog banks in the center of the state, there is the hide-and-seek of isthmus and island, swallowing swathes of houses, and enveloping hills. It’s a Bay Area Thing. Fog reminds us that we can never see the whole of a thing – but that no matter how we perceive it as is gone because we cannot see it, it remains, only hidden.
though clouds may intrude
and the earth rotate away
the sun is constant
♦
facts, despite wishing
remain. Inevitably,
after night, morning
Here’s to holding steady until the fog clears.
a spark in darkness is still light
world in shades of gray
still, the frost-blighted, blooming –
hope flares. tenacious
…and yet more concert talk.
When I transitioned from teaching full time to writing, I took over for a friend having chemo and taught all of his classes for a semester. Additionally, another teacher got stuck with a visa issue overseas, so we all ended up scrambling. That semester I taught junior high math and science, and choir – most notably, Kindergarten choir, twice a week… which at least made a change from junior high, where the floods of tears were from students who had forgotten their notes for the open-note test. (Too bad, these things happen, do your best.) In Kindergarten they cried because they didn’t know how to sing a round, they didn’t want to learn to sing a round, they wanted to run in circles, and Ms. Davis was mean. (Put your bottom in the chair, not your feet, please.)
While basically unmoved by tears, Ms. Davis subsequently did her best to see that she and Kindergarten did not spend much time together after that.
However, in the course of that semester, I had to give an open house concert, because the school year, and thus the show must go on. I can’t tell you how much respect I have for music teachers, especially this time of year, when it’s big, showy, shiny concerts where we’re all in our places (allegedly) with bright shining faces (is that glitter!?), and no matter what, you must appear poised and gracious and ignore the waving child, or the girl who is so enamored of her dress that she’s dancing with it, raised above her head, or the junior high boys who are punching each other (although after, there will be words), or the high schoolers who had a huge falling out right before the first song and are trying not to cry… oh, yeah. Good times. Raise your mug to music teachers, people. They have a JOB.
Recently, I looked over some pictures of the school concerts I’ve attended this year and years past, and realized… there is ALWAYS one kid doing something other than playing with their band mates or singing. ALWAYS. This, more than anything else underscores the basic truth: control – over kid singers or players or anything else, really – is an illusion.
Every year, we have a burst of holiday programs to attend – from the elementary school and high school programs the nephews and the cousins are involved with, to the church Messiah Sing Along, to various community groups putting together “Blessing bags” for the homeless and having carol karaoke. This year, it all managed to land on the same weekend. And, it’s pouring. Which makes caroling… interesting. But, we live in interesting times, do we not? Hark.
to the tiny thief
marauding in the kitchen:
this will not end well…
bright notes ringing out –
carols and laughter appeal
night’s silver lining
The weather has turned, which means, in this old house, the pitter patter of little feet. Unfortunately, these little feet come pitter-pattering with tails and fur and the ability to piddle at every step and leave little black doodies all over the kitchen drawers. And holes in my roiboos bag… At least they’re predictable; they almost always come into the kitchen from the same spot, no matter how much steel wool I jam into every crevice.
It could be worse. It could be rats. It could be hamsters. (No, seriously: when we moved in, the house had been vacant for over six months, and apparently, the people before had left behind their hamster, which had kind of gone feral. I found it when it took bites out of the avocados on the counter. Hamsters can climb, apparently…)
Especially when vermin come into my house, these are the days I miss my baby.
a muscular whip
merciless and swift striking
evicts rodent thieves
Today, we heard that someone lost — and then found faith in friends. Today a friend got married. Today, someone with a longer reach lifted up a myriad smaller voices. Today renewed my faith.
though we be only
reflections of distant suns
we still light the night