Happy Winter Solstice!

 

 

In looking for a poem that fits this picture of a gull taken during the Winter Solstice in 2012, I turned to the Poetry Foundation's website. Right off, I came across this poem by a favorite poet of mine, Mary Oliver, who was born in Ohio. Mary lived in the east during her adult years, but many of her nature poems have their roots in Ohio.

 

I love the winter solstice. It is a day to remember ancient people who planned their celebrations of life around the natural calendar. I always take the day off, a welcome break in all the Christmas preparation frenzies. I usually do not have a clear-cut plan of how I will spend the day, I simply drive around to see what I'll see. Last year I came across gulls at my regular nature spot, which was a treat because gulls are not all that common at the reservoirs.

 

This year, I invited Denise to motor around with me. Our loose plan is to meander to Lake Erie, but with heavy rains predicted for the day, our plans may change to staying closer to home. Either way, and with or without Old Sol, we'll enjoy our respite from Holiday Madness.

 

I wish calmness and serenity on this Winter Solstice Day, the shortest day of the year. I'm feeling a little bit like Age of Aquarius right now!

 

Marcheta *let the sun shine, let the sun shine in!

 

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver b. 1935 Mary Oliver

In winter

    all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

             where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

    shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

             Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,

    but he's restless—

         he has an idea,

             and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

    as long as he stays awake.

         But his big, round music, after all,

             is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.

    In the pine-crown

         he makes his nest,

             he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,

    I only imagine his glittering beak

         tucked in a white wing

             while the clouds—

which he has summoned

    from the north—

         which he has taught

             to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall

    into the world below

         like stars, or the feathers

               of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,

    that is asleep now, and silent—

         that has turned itself

             into snow