Poem for A Winter's Day

Today a thick, fast snowfall wrapped the rough edges of our scurrying-about with a soft, quieting cocoon, and shooed us back into our homes like so many birds or woodland creatures. I like letting go of outside commitments with the excuse of weather beyond my control. I like allowing myself to be drawn down from the usual pace into another rhythm -- into that kind of contemplation that feeds on solitude, that might warm to a cup of hot cocoa and lead, perhaps, to poetry.

The day reminded me of this poem, which I wrote some time ago. Although it is not exactly a winter poem, it does draw to a close on a winter’s day, perhaps like today.


TAO

A flutter of blue gingham beneath the eyelids
just before sleep, and I walk in my grandmother's house
look out the window at the firs
freshly planted and low enough to jump.

Inside I am warm -- hot cocoa,
my wrinkled grandmother wearing her gingham apron,
the lingering touch of sheets
tucked with care the night before.

So small my young spirit, tight as a seed
barely sprouted, yet I knew -- like the sure cut
of English streets and names -- that my grandmother was old
and I, green and growing.

Now that silver runs its fingers through my hair
even when I do not stand in moonlight
I ponder more on mysteries, wonder
at the fruit that sleeps in trees --

Feel dancing deep within my heart
the unburdened spirit of my grandmother,
her strong chi embracing me
like an eagle circling her nest.

Now she is the tender shoot
reaching through another world,
the maiden who can see
her bridegroom take the rainbow for his bow.*

And I, grown old as the firs outside the window,
whose strong branches bear the heavy snow
and warm the winter birds in their keep.

Druzelle Cederquist
Published in World Order Magazine, Vol 31, No.4, Summer 2000

*Reference to a Native American story about a spiritual suitor who could be seen only by a pure-hearted maiden.

Poem for A Winter's Day