The Practice Of Winter

 

One widowed bud bursting her veil of ice.

Bitter joy of the flicker screaming,

"I alone remain in the kingdom of silence."

Smell of fresh earth from your body. 

This is the practice of Winter.

 

Hallow the dark.

Listen til you hear the listening.

Mother your own heart.

No more mountain tops. 

Yearn for the valley.

 

This is the practice of Winter.

Welcome the sky into your diaphram, 

the moon into your belly, rising, falling, 

mist in the ancient cedars of your alveoli, 

a lady bug still living, stinging ruby kiss 

of solitude between your eyebrows.

 

Through your blood, fatted salmon swim 

upstream toward the waterfall of breathing.

Last night's rain snakes down

your switchback trail of vertebrae. 

 The mud tastes sweet, syrup of the sun.

This is the practice of Winter.

Wander wayless, off trail, lost 

in a wolf-gray fog.

Take the path of the ordinary,

chosen by deer for its stillness.

Crystal attention, sound of snow,

an open palm so full of stars 

you have to find another word for emptiness.

 

Aloneness whispering, "Touch my fern,

my hemlock, touch my bejeweled quietness 

after the shriek of the fox's desire."

Plaint of the snowy owl, "Hu, Hu," 

a rugged mantra clapping one hand 

to keep warm, no dreaming allowed.

You hear the sleep of seeds beneath the frost

like snoring uncles after the best wine.  

They are your ancestors, and which of them 

is not your progeny?

 

What larva, fermenting in loam,

is not the work of your yeast,

the leaven of watchfulness?

This is the practice of Winter. 

No dreaming allowed in the heart.

Keep folding and kneading yourself

into the bread of creation.

Before you were conceived

you were the food.

Before you were conceived

you were the food.

Photo from our hike, Mt. Rainier.