Foxglove Moments
Foxglove is the name of my property, five acres overlooking the Lewis River Valley that was covered with the wildflower when I first moved here in 1996.
During the month of February, I was snowbound on my hill for 11 of
its 28 days--about the point when my appreciation for all this winterland
beauty and solitude begins to wane and I once again look forward to
spring's welcome return.
Posted: March 4, 2023
During the recent freeze, the hummingbird feeders turned to ice.
With the return of the winter sun, this little fellow patiently awaits
the thaw, not unlike many of us bide our time, waiting for spring's
eventual return.
Posted: February 3, 2023
Amid the blackened stalks and pale, withered blossoms,
one lone hydrangea glows eerie blue in the winter dusk,
making an exquisite last stand against the inevitable.
I ponder it, amazed,
admiring its final burst of being
before the end, and eternal rest…
awaiting spring.
I sense a fellow-feeling here,
part grief, part gratitude,
something I can’t express and don’t understand--
but think Thoreau would--
going out in style, quietly, in solemn dignity
with all the grace and beauty one can muster.
(Rage/raging against the dying of the light is for amateurs.)
I realize: I could learn from this.
And realize: I have.
Posted: December 9, 2022
YES! After weeks of cautious, tentative behavior, the raccoon has finally ventured out while I'm working on the hillside or sitting nearby, writing in my notebook. This marks a major achievement in human-animal relations.
Deer, squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, hummingbirds, jays--and now raccoons!
Next I'm working on the bear.
Posted: June 19, 2022
Watching autumn do its thing,
slowly overtaking summer,
day by day, leaf by leaf,
blossoms dying without grief.
It's just what they do,
and they seem to know it.
I wonder at how effortlessly,
how perfectly the seasons pass.
No grandstanding, no defiant show,
they just...let...go.
First posted: September 19, 2021
In June,
with the rhododendrons in all their glory,
come the monarchs
in all their glory.
First posted: June 1, 2021
He perches on a branch outside my study, staring at me.
I know what he wants. He wants me to fill the bird feeders.
Like he’s nobly advocating on behalf of the birds.
I ignore him.
Over the next half hour, he continues his squirrelly attempt to shame me.
It’s not going to work. I will fill the feeders when I feel like it.
I address him through the window pane:
“You’re wild. You’re supposed to fend for yourself.
So, go away and do some fending.”
He pretends he doesn’t understand me.
Through the afternoon he will leave, return,
check the feeders [still empty] and resume his position,
same branch, same stance, same deeply aggrieved expression
hovering over my shoulder as I write,
like Poe’s raven (“Quoth the squirrel, Somemore!”)
It’s distracting. I draw the blinds—
then peek between the slats to see if he’s still there.
He stares at me peeking through the slats
and I realize how pathetic I am.
I return to my desk, refusing to concede to a rodent,
determined to get back into my writing trance.
I light a candle, close my eyes, breathe deep several times,
centering myself until finally reaching that theta state
where there is only me,
where there is only this pen,
where only this sheet of paper.
And a squirrel.
Frustrated, I beseech my muse for inspiration, for revelation, for insight.
At last, my muse speaks:
Feed the damn squirrel.
I put down my pen and go refill the feeders.
First posted: February 6, 2021
A beetle outside my window
moving confidently, decisively across the glass pane of the world,
moving with a sense of purpose, a bug on a mission,
as if knowing exactly what he's doing and where he's going.
Or does he?
Perhaps he's all instinct at work.
Impulse. Movement for movement's sake,
propelled by biological drives too deep for him to fathom,
programmed by nature to appear rational and intentional.
Maybe he doesn't have a clue what he's doing,
or why he's doing it.
Maybe he's just doing what he's gotta do,
the question of fate or free will never crossing his buggy brain.
So musing, I turn back to the presidential debate.
First posted: October 24, 2020
Sun glowering in a red, angry sky,
as if fully fed up with Homo sapiens.
What a mess we've made of our earthly Eden,
the planet fast becoming a dystopia (literally "sick place.")
The West coast on fire,
shrouded in a dense suffocating cloud of smoke,
ash covers everything,
unsafe to be outside--breathe at your own risk--
resembling the Apocalypse.
Or maybe it is.
First posted: September 15, 2020
