The Vine

Last summer’s silver remnant,
this weathered stem of goldenrod, long passed,
tolerant of the youngster’s questioning.
Patiently waiting,
as arms reach, fingers probe.

Between the two,
a spider.




Who, thinking I envy his catch,
tucks himself quickly behind.




Then, remembers
some things are worth fighting for.




Like the ant,
who carelessly climbed
the silver summer stem
beneath the vine.

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A Field Sparrow

Field Sparrow, Spizella pusilla

Walking the Silver Spoon

Winter Porch

I miss the world outdoors,
in the way I knew it on warmer days.
The trails I walked, their hills and curves—
like tracing the bend of a spoon, turning it, over and over again, in my hand.
Even in stillness, without birds or bugs or blooms to discover,
the constancy of the walk I found very settling.
There is comfort in the familiar.

Icy Trees through upstairs window

I sit indoors, now, by a crackling wood stove, birds scattered on the fresh, white snow beyond the window.
Around me, a wealth of things and the faces I love.
A cup of hot tea at my elbow.
Browsing the photographs of a warmer day's walk -- almost as if in real time.
But, still, there is something missing.

Something that I find, only in my walking,
leaving wealth and warmth behind.
So, I walk.

Winter Walk

Crossing Paths

Praying Mantis egg case waiting on icy stems

Praying Mantis, female
from summer field

Glass Beads (SWF)

Like a strand of glass beads, broken,
and bouncing loosely onto the roof in a million tiny pieces, the first sounds of this morning woke me with an abrupt reminder of the day’s promise—ice.
The gentle tapping at the window last evening, the fine mist I’d left falling softly in the darkness before bed, almost forgotten.
And what, in the dimness of dawn, seemed a delicate satiny glaze, with the daylight showed, in fact, a much chunkier covering. Which, with each slight sway of the tall, broad trees, repeated its shattering, as sections of the glassy layer fractured and fell in silver showers all around.


By mid-day, the freezing rain had become large flakes pouring wildly from a thick, swirling sky—
until there was no more to fall from it.
And then, in the stillness it remained,
soft and white above the night’s icing.


And I, without the demands on it of every other,
could let this day be just that.
Soft and white and still.

all photos click to enlarge

Glass Beads
Ice on Ironweed

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All Things New (SWF)

Setting Sun,
December 31, 2008

Perhaps it is the white cast left on the fading grass this frosty January morning. Or the crispness of the day that follows a cloudless night--and sparkles under bright, clean rays.
The newness of this year is almost palatable.

Rising Sun,
January 1, 2009

Like white sneakers, saved for the first day of school. Treasured for their promise of another beginning.
While last year’s, scuffed and worn, are moved to the back of the closet.

I remember fussing over them.
Loving them for being unmarked and wholly new.
Trying to preserve their whiteness.
Fearing the first smudge from another.

Until they, with each day, slowly became like all the others.
With stories told by the marks they bore.

This morning,
wearing white sneakers again.

Frosty Field

Crystals on Teasel

All photos enlarge with a click.

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The Trees

Oak in field

We pass the farm fields, spreading in all directions, filling the space between various small villages, as we travel longer distances, out from our own small town.
This season’s harvest now past, hidden homes appear where acres of tall, dense corn touched the blue of the horizon.


My favorite marker of these places we pass, the trees, standing apart from it all.


Rooted here for years, as these fields, each time,
have turned from green...
to gold...
to brown.
Perhaps spared the axe or saw in order to shade the workers here, man or beast. Or grown from a seed, fallen in the pile of rocks cleared from the earth before planting.

In any case, they reign--
magnificent markers in a resting landscape.

Two Trees

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Beneath Color

A night in the thirties has chased the last color from the field.
Where August boasted the deep purple of Ironweed riding high above a waving hillside of spicy golden flower tops, all has faded to brown.

field behind barn, August 22, 2008

field behind barn, October 19, 2008

The bracts, now open in flat, petaline forms, reflecting the angled light of an autumn day. Beautiful in their own way, these structures beneath the color, seen only after its passing.

Tall Ironweed, seeds gone

Soft seed heads cast hundreds to the wind, while Goldfinches and sparrows cling to their swaying stems, riding the breeze as on a small chestnut steed.
Up and down.
Up and down.

Virginia Creeper on barn siding

Misty Morning

Field at dawn with spider web

I approach the misty field with the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning.
Last night a spider was at work here.
And I know now where I will find her.

single strand of silk across path

I watched as she laid down the spokes of a giant wheel, scrambling back and forth from the center to each edge. A framework on which to build--the finest silk strands anchored firmly.
Barely seen, yet perfectly placed.
Then wound them ‘round and ‘round.
And the field slipped into darkness.

Orb weaver web heavy with dew

The heaviness of a late summer’s day is left here by this cool morning. Draped like a cord of small white lights, twinkling in the first rays of sun.
The finest glass beads along each thread, bend but do not break it.



Until, with the rising light they vanish.
And the magic of a misty morning is gone.

our tree draped with lights
Christmas morning 2007