Winter is Coming

Thoughts on turning 68

December 23, 2023 - 8:13 am

I.
Everything was as expected.
The sun rose and kissed the holly tree,
recalling the robins, wrens, and chickadees to song,
and skimmed the unfolding leaves
of the Swiss cheese plant
that’s taught me the fine art
of watch-and-wait watering.

Everything was normal.
The cats, bathing in pools of winter sun,
yawned, stretched, and swiped at one another
with scythe-like claws,
reminding each another
who’s boss
(Hint - it’s not me).

Everything was the same -
the hum of traffic three blocks away,
the smell of dryer sheets (lavender on steroids),
the stink of leaf blowers passing gas
and shredding the air
as they pushed dusty leaves
back and forth across the parking lot.

II.
Everything is the same,
but it’s not.
The tissue paper sheets of beliefs,
stretched between frames of assumptions,
are brittle and torn.
They flap in the breath of last night’s storm
whispering ocean-scented secrets to the trees.

I imagine this is how the monarch feels
her body compelled to climb to dangerous heights,
to cling to a single twig,
to curl and turn in on itself,
turn inside out to expose
a green and glistening chrysalis
of newborn skin.

Inside,
unseen, unmarked, unnoticed
by any but her own soft light
she descends into dissolution,
embracing loss,
embracing the cost of deconstruction
and the promise of rebirth.

III.
Emergence
is its own special ordeal.
There is no guarantee
that still damp wings
and thread thin legs will unfold,
the proboscis unroll to drink
or the antennae taste the air.

It’s all a total crapshoot,
which pisses me off
(on her behalf and mine),
and holds me awestruck and breathless
as she accepts my proffered finger,
tests the luminous air with orange-black wings,
and gives herself to flight. - J.B

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