There are certain harbingers of a season.
In the mountains, one such winter’s messenger is the delivery of firewood — a cord of oak or lodgepole pine cut to size, left in an unwieldy pile in the driveway near the house. Below is an unpolished, unedited poem from my writing journal. I don’t have a woodstove now…I have another type of heat. But I remember very well that sense of gratitude and a feeling of wealth when the firewood was delivered. These were my poetic thoughts while stacking wood.
© by Christine O’Brien
I don’t know what it is
to witness a tree falling
toppling hard upon the earth
vibrating with a thunderous curse.
Was it ready to give up life,
spirit sap, seamless strife,
surrendering to weapons
which sever, protest unheard.
Who will house that lonely bird
which once kept home within these leaves?
Does the bird fly to another hovel or
descend with the tree in a graceless flutter
like flower petals
though not so gently.
Perhaps they remember
the earth from which they’ve come
and rise again in a new form.
Now I stack it in imperfect piles
heat of my hearth
blazing and wild
to be so used
The wealth of all that one life can be
standing small am I beside this tree
What is a harbinger of the season in your hemisphere? Choose one thing and write about it uncensored in poetry or prose. Be real, be silly, be serious, be ridiculous, be imperfect, just be.