The Voice

Just before we’re born, pushed out

of the embryonic space we’ve grown accustomed to,

dark and wet and warm, just before, we hear

in our heads amid the muted instructions to push

and our mothers’ birthing grunts and screams,

just before we’re forced to leave, resisting it,

this voice, sounding, rings clearly in our heads,

in our ears newly formed, speaking in the only language

we can truly know, truly understand, our own language,

foreign even to the voices we hear from without

now loud around us, our own voice clearly heard

again, once again in our heads, in our own language

loud above our own crying out, all we know to do,

pulled as we are from the dark and wet and warm,

the space where we floated, softly tucked and safe,

pushed out now as we are into the cold unknown,

harshly lit, mishandled, pushed and pulled

to experience this thing called living;

and the voice we hear, just before, before we’re born,

and after, clear above our own voice crying out,

that same voice we hear years later, softly, many times,

in our own language, known and understood,

in other pushings and pullings, resisting,

and the voice, as now, reminds us, in our heads,

clearly ringing, sounding, “don’t forget to breathe.”

A Walk in a Winter Wood

A winter’s day, mid-afternoon,

and a walk on the crusty snow, careful

steps to keep from slipping, falling

on an icy patch, or, breaking through,

plunging to my knee, knee-deep

and awkward, my other leg bent and poised

for balance to pull myself out again,

to plunge again and fall, so I keep

my eyes on the snow ahead, missing, perhaps,

what lies around me in the woods;

but stopping now, a slight breeze,

too slight even to rattle the dry leaves

clinging to spindly trees left over from autumn's season,

this slight breeze carries the pungent scent of balsam,

Christmas’ fragrance, sweet and tart,

tangy, Christmas all over again

this winter day, mid-afternoon, and a walk

on the crusty snow through the woods where I live:

“O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,

Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.

O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!”⁽¹⁾

⁽¹⁾ “Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum,

     Not only green when summer’s here,

     But also when ‘tis cold and drear.

     Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum,

     Much pleasure thou can’st give me.”

Alleluia

If I stare at the tree-tops,

backlit by a summer blue sky,

brilliant, a stray cloud like a childhood

cloud resembling a dog’s head, billowing,

or a horse, a cartoon character

I strain to see now in adult years,

if I stare hard enough, I don’t see

the snow and ice below, frozen

and driving me, now, inside to gaze

out the window, here, at the tree tops,

playful, their arms raised and swaying,

thrown about in wild gesticulation,

“here, here, I’m open, throw it to me,”

or more reverent, as in some alleluia,

arms raised to the heavens, calling,

swaying to a music deep in their souls,

a music I strain to hear, can’t seem to hear,

but if I stare at the treetops hard enough,

oblivious now of ice and snow and passing years,

the music swells, my own arms raised and swaying,

“alleluia … I’m open, here, throw it to me,”

and the clouds become a pirate ship sailing off,

sailing away, taking me, too, beyond the treetops,

beyond the snow and ice below,

beyond the passing years.

The Bitter Cold of Winter

The bitter cold of winter, negative degrees

plunged lower by the wind, winter’s armament,

assaults the fortress where I live,

barricaded inside, donning the armor of winter,

the long-johns of childhood days, wool knit socks,

and a cup of coffee to warm my hands, the warmth

of the room chilled by a buffeting attack

kept at bay behind these walls. And venturing out,

because I must, layers and layers upon me,

earmuffs and hats and hoods, scarves

and a down-filled coat and gloves, arms

ineffective against the cold’s bite now

in my aging years, recalling cold winters past

that never bothered youth too restless to be shut in

as I am now, restless, too, though barricaded and warm,

content to watch the snow falling, the winter storm’s

cold and snow raging around me, sheltered

in the security of age, buffeted, perhaps, by memories

of youth, memories that keep me warm, keep me safe,

keep me content in the winter months of life.