That still small voice we’re taught
to listen to is not so still anymore,
nor small, a flurry now of arms and
legs and chattering, toddler size,
that small voice I held on my lap and
rocked to sleep, followed behind
his clumsy steps to dust off the
dirt when he fell, set him aright, and off
we go, reminding me what’s
important, where life and purpose lie,
a voice discovering himself and the world,
growing and learning and becoming …
Cam.
His paws are imprinted into the new
fallen snow, leaving behind
a path to follow into his wintery
world, meandering these woods
we share, but we will not follow
him, nor seek him out as we face
our own wintery world of cold and
snow and the tasks at hand;
perhaps, though, we should stop and,
stumbling forward, seek him out
even as he seeks us here meandering,
too: a message, an answer, a sign.
And the chords were struck in the
long, long ago,
some angel’s harp before time or Joshua’s
trumpets
bringing down the walls of Jericho’s
evil; today’s chords
are still resounding, the root and
3rd and 5th, the triad,
adding the octave, in clear tuned
tones, long chords held
and arpeggios, up and down, steady
and bold, a melody created,
its harmonies played, blending,
logically, predictably, a pleasant
movement from phrase to phrase, C
major to G to A minor and F,
new voices added, minor chords and
diminished, augmented,
notes shifted up that ½ tone or down,
changing moods, creating
tension, an emotional arc, or adding
a 7th, bridging the changes,
transitions, progressions from
chord to chord, key to key
modulating, new harmonies built on
these foundations,
like we who listen, like we who
play, bridging ourselves
to the new chords we hear, new chords
we perform, new lives we choose,
our own harmonies keeping us
connected to the music of earth,
the music of life, embedded deeply
into our very souls, this the soul
of mankind, of humanity, chords
changing, transforming, like time
moving forward, keeping our
melodies, our harmonies alive, dissonance
resolving in the perfect chord, the
perfect harmonic, perfect accord.
continues, a season much colder longer
this year, another year
older, colder, and the small birds that
flock to my feeder
puff themselves up to stay warm while
they patiently wait
their turn to select a seed and fly
off to eat it in peace
in the warmth of a winter fir, to
return again, puffed up
and patient, waiting, much as we
all do, watching
and warm inside our homes and
ourselves, waiting
our turns and the change of seasons
ahead.
This year, perhaps we should return
to the playgrounds
of elementary school, our first introduction
to the yards
that called us out to play, in sun
or rain, out for recess
onto the grass and earth trodden
below our small feet,
discovering the freedom of delight,
of sharing ourselves,
and the pure enjoyment of others
with us, shared
and sharing, long before the
bullies came along,
when our size and shape and color,
our burgeoning skills
developing, our differences and
sameness didn’t matter,
not to us so young, not to the
playground, the other children,
but only that we had each other;
what mattered then,
those moments in that time in our
lives, existing only for itself,
those moments held tightly in our
imaginations where everything
good was possible, and that was
enough in this little world we lived.
Oh, that we could carry that time
with us into this new year,
that moment the ball drops and
every moment we face moving
through the days, the months, the
years ahead, the seasons beyond,
these seasons we shared there on
the playground carried with us now,
where everything good is possible,
and that is enough.
