Hard to believe. My 500th post. I am at the beginning of a three month, what?, retreat/hermitage/mystic-being-a-mystic time that lasts until Easter. I mean, I'm still getting out most days on the city bus to do grocery shopping, use the library computer, see friends, etc. However, my focus is on finishing my book and listening to any and all inner leadings that may surface during this time. It's easier to do at this season of the year. Yesterday began at something like -13 degrees F, with wind chills down in the minus thirties. The sky was brilliant blue, and as anyone knows who has traveled to or lived in this environment, everything seems sharp, clear, almost shockingly so.
I sat looking out the window and stared at the big lake, which is starting to freeze around the edges. Something happened that has never happened to me before, which is that a poem started to write itself. So I grabbed pen and paper, and the result is here. Whether it is a good poem or not, I'll leave to others, and whether it's really about the lake or me, I also don't know. But I share it with my ever-indulgent readers, with thanks for still being there after four-and-a-half years.
Freezing Over
I am freezing over.
Some say I have been frozen all along,
Creaking, groaning,
Inarticulate.
But you weren't listening, were you.
Beware my placid surface
Beware the white sheen that goes as far as the
eye can see.
Nothing is happening, you say.
But it is happening. It is happening.
I will thaw in the spring.
And this year
You will hear my voice.
It will be all that is audible.
It will be all that is sensible.
Any more.
