April is a month of dying
into the flaming fire,
the white heat of spring.
You circle overhead
as the Hawk does in my dreams…
Broad russet wings and tail,
a golden eye
piercing illusions
of separateness
intertwining the two –
Winter and Summer-
Both, Cycles of Becoming.
April is a month of dying
into the flaming fire,
the white heat of spring.
Bittersweet flaming orange heat
and bleached blue sky
bend olive trees
with thorns, as leaves unfurl
casting sage green
shadows over
serpentine waters.
Willows glow –
burnishing gold wands
at dusk.
April is a month of dying
into the flaming fire,
the white heat of spring.
Communing underground
thirsty cottonwoods
gulp much needed water,
give thanks for
Red Willow River
as do I.
April is a month of dying
into the flaming fire,
the white heat of spring.
If only rain would come,
these mighty trees
with elephantine arms
would surely
drop pendulous russet flowers,
uncurl scalloped leaves
inviting us to sit awhile
under rough textured bark
to listen carefully,
to reflect upon this canopy
woven out of hearts
murmuring over our heads.
April is a month of dying
into the flaming fire,
the white heat of spring.
Secrets are revealed
among arching tree boughs,
trunks, roots, and fungi,
truths we cannot bear to hear.
Dying into life
is a message
we need to feel.
Postscript:
Today is my father’s birthday…this morning I honored his life sitting by the river before dawn. I waited for the sun to rise through silver clouds… but the sky turned gray.
The day I buried my brother, hawks perched in bare branched trees around Trillium rock. One morning I spied a hawk driving to work. He lay lifeless, every feather intact as if asleep, by the side of the road. I stopped, gathering the dead, but still warm bird, gently in my arms. I would cremate him in my wood stove when I reached home… I didn’t know yet that my mother had died during the previous night. Another hawk almost flew into my window one September when a baby I longed for was born. How could I have known I would lose this child too?
