Windows

Staring out the window this morning

at snow on grass and pine branches--

snow so heavy and wet it has broken off three limbs

that lay close to their trunks, raw ends exposed--

I remember winter mornings when we were small,

my sisters and I.  Sharing a bedroom, the three of us 

breathing moistly in our sleep,

while gas flames in the fireplace

rippled over asbestos.  Waking to windows

frosted with intricate forms,

white almost-flowers-and-ferns,

purer and more beautiful than art.

We stood beside each other in delight.

Then reached out and felt

how deeply the frost was layered on the pane.

Raked our fingernails through it, peeling

furry strands.  Reveled in the cold

as it tingled our fingers.

It’s commonplace to remark

on the vulnerability of the young.

But those children in pajamas and nightgowns,

marveling at windows,

seem incomparably less vulnerable, less sad,

than the people we eventually became.

© Tony Russell, 2011

Photo by Tony Russell

The Other Side

All week the threshing machine spat straw.

And then there it sat, a great yellow dome

begging to be climbed if you could do it.

I couldn’t.  Nobody could, not a straw pile -

a running start and a loud whoop gained you

a few feet but not the summit, ever.

It was the pigs, rubbing and burrowing

around the edges, who started the other game.

They’d thrust their shoulders against the stack,

then root and trench their way around the base.

Before long they had undercut the edge

and turned their crooked paths toward the center,

rambling pig-sized tunnels just right for a boy

on his knees, and there I was, crawling around

beneath who knows how many tons of straw

held up by pillars any runt could knock down.

Breathe deeply and ease in, grope your way along.

Follow the shoat trotting through the dark -

he grunts in fear of you, not of the path.

Hold your breath against the rot and something

that’s cramping your heart.  Let the shoulders glide

gently, so gently, along the walls.  Let it doze,

let it dream of quiet days in the sun

when a wren could light unnoticed.  Let it sleep

like a child till you reach the other side

and daylight: stained knees, manure up to your wrists,

but you’re out now, and no column fell.

And if it had, that great stack would have made no sound–

oh, a little sigh, perhaps, as it listed

a few degrees, exhaled a wisp or two,

and snuggled around me its gentle bulk.

© David Black, 2011

Haystack at Giverny, by Monet

Stained Glass

Washed in light, yet stained to screen

The light within, without.

I pray the Lord will wash me clean

Thru' death & darkest doubt.

I traced His love in a rainbow's curve;

I find it when I search.

I feel it when I'm made to serve,

A window to the church.

          © F. Carroll Harrison, 2011

Window, Canterbury Cathedral

What Will It Take

WHAT will it take...

For the world to know Itself as One?

Defiance of Unity?

Allegiance to Autonomy?

Separation as an Entity?

Confusion a Reality?

War as Eventuality?

STOP IT! Just Stop.

In terms of Being 

We are One in Spirit and Humanity

Environment lives and breathes

We aspire...

Let us be open to a vision

of differences proclaimed, 

as every flower we know

has got a name,

yet no inherent cause to blame another species grown beside.

Let us awake to a truth inside....

We are ONE

Yet, even in Nature's way 

we see that conflict lives....

The forest overtakes the field 

as saplings sprout amidst 

the grass which came to be 

after a fire which leveled all there was to see....

How do we manage our Destiny?

Seeking the Light that we all require, let's not mob the place.

Every flower needs some space 

to live and grow!

Understanding this is So, and giving each their Due, 

Unity will follow through.

© Gerry Sackett, 2011

Touch-me-not; photo by Tony Russell