The shadow of a bird
flicks over the
white seed globes of dandelions.
Seagulls criss-cross over
the undulating waters
and the air smells green.
Water slaps rock.
Birds chirp.
I am in the quiet.
The Shadow of a Bird
Spring Tease
Spring unveils herself first
from behind the curtain of winter
with small flashes
of colour: purple crocuses, yellow
daffodils, green sprouts,
the golding branches of willows.
The winter green of evergreens
is present always through
bare branches,
but now Spring drapes a pale
scarlet mist around a few trees
and bright greens clutch her limbs.
She teases, displaying swelling buds
as, on the ground, red tulips open,
then she flaunts her magnolias, and
wanton displays of pink blossoms,
white ones ripening, variegated
greens hiding branches.
Spring unveils herself
to the swelling sounds of birdsong,
through sunlight and rain,
through ducks and swans and flying geese,
through colours, growing touches and sounds -
warming her waiting, watching audience!
Saudade
A Portuguese term, saudade, is a deep emotional state where love, absence, memory, and time intertwine. It is not about missing something you love. It is about something that continues to exist deeply within you even when it is physically far away,
- Shital Morjaria
I drive by ghosts on familiar streets,
their eyes downcast,
their hands pocketed,
their voices silent,
I see them blindly touch bare-branched trees,
ignoring the magnolia blossoms
and the electric green leafing
of trees celebrating
spring’s resurrections.
The rain pocks the windshield
as I look away,
steering past,
not calling their names.
They lived here but we’ve left that time;
the unevenly greening leaves and buds on bare branches
sing new paths, new stories,
and the brief glories of magnolia blossoms
speak of the ongoing joys of life.
Cross-posted at Substack – https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/saudade
After Becoming Alone
After becoming alone
I had to shrink,
to downsize,
to let go, and
let go, and
let go into
a minimalism of
heart and being.
After becoming alone,
I had to discover,
(in the long numbing silence),
to uncover, and
discover again,
and re-discover
what joys
could now nourish me.
Crossposted at https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/after-becoming-alone
April Weavings
It’s spring and the spider
outside the window is back.
When I walk I see the couples
holding hands
while I pocket mine.
It’s spring and the couples
smile at each other.
When I enter my new home
I feel the silence
and walk again to the window.
I watch the outside spider
inside this trickster spring.
Who are you here? I ask
as I have no one
holding my hand.
Cross-posted at https://open.substack.com/pub/joanvinallcox/p/april-weavings?r=oj9j7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web which includes an audio version.
Winter’s End
Grey-etched discarded snow
leaks into a muddied path
leading to a locked gate.
Water puddles on a frozen field
while behind a building
daffodil shoots whisper yellow hope.
My slow steps turn from winter
while my key, like the unborn daffodil,
seeks a future warmth.
Cross-posted on Substack – https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/winters-end
To Hope Without Knowing
Cross posted at https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/to-hope-without-knowing
To hope without knowing where you’re going
is to live richly,
learning to tolerate
ambiguity and surprise
and long times of quiet happenstance.
To keep moving when everything changes
is to accept the path,
learning to walk
with different rhythms
in a new landscape.
Winter Twilight
From The Winter of Listening in David Whyte’s Essentials
So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.
The grey mauve of twilight
clouds the approach
of darkness
as I watch and wait.
Change gestating within hope:
Advent’s promise
teases me with the solstice’s
diminishment of darkness.
I pray to be more
capable of creating
light
before the darkness.
On Turning 80
I wrote this piece the last day of my seventh decade, and on my following birthday.
Tomorrow I will be 80. This is the first time I find myself approaching a birthday, even a decade birthday, with a kind of trepidation: the odds are that I won’t reach my next decade birthday. I might, but I quite possibly won’t. It’s hard to take in, but I want to live with the awareness that I am mortal, that I will die.. I want to feel my time left. I want to contribute, I don’t know exactly what, what I can, even in a limited way. I want to receive and create; joy comes from that, and I’m greedy for love and joy in the time I have left.
I certainly didn’t think of 70 as the beginning of a final decade for my husband or for me, but it was for him. I’m so glad we had a party for his 70ᵗʰ, as he wanted. When he offered me one for my 70th, I refused it. I find, now, for this birthday, I’m happy for recognition on the excuse of having a “significant” birthday. I’m glad to be seen now. I’m grateful to have a daughter, friends, and many happy (or learning) memories as I go forward.
On this the final day of my Seventh Decade, It’s cloudy and cold. The geese are honking and only the evergreens show colour amongst the bare trees. Looking back I see I was born at an advantageous time in a peaceful land with much to enjoy and be grateful for. Even the wounds i endured were opportunities to learn. Now, blanketed by my choices, I ease towards the time I’ll no longer be.
I see the streams of car lights and the Christmas lights on the houses and in the park. I am finding my birthday eve not very happy despite emails from friends. My arm and shoulder ache. I’m missing my husband and sad.
When I turned 80, on my actual birthday, I ended up enjoying myself. The weather was bright, and I felt more positive. While I was getting my breakfast, my daughter danced out of her bedroom playing the Beatles and singing along to “Today it’s your birthday!” She gave me 2 cards, one a joke and the other sweet, plus a gift. I also got lots of greetings, some because she posted my birthday and age on Facebook. And a new friend gave me some champagne.
Once again, I learned that feelings shift, that life is constant change. I am 80, and still learning how to live.
Encountering Grief – Excerpt 3
In this busy rational world, how do we recognize our own feelings? When my life companion, my husband of 52 two years, the father of our daughter, was diagnosed with a fatal cancer I just kept on. Like Gladys Knight and the Pips sang, I just “kept on keeping on”. And when he died, I continued the same way – except I was upset that I felt so numb, that I wasn’t grieving, as I imagined grieving to happen. I found myself struggling at journalling but I kept pulsing out strange poems, poems that I came to realize were my grieving coming out in strange ways. Then someone I knew, who had seen my poems on my blog, recognized them as grieving and suggested she write prayers to speak to each poem, and that we put together a book.
Encountering Grief in poetry and prayer is published on Amazon
Excerpt 3 - Difficult Awakening
On the day I wake,
still on my side but
stretching into
the centre of our bed,
I notice I no longer
listen
for kitchen sounds
or the key
opening the door.
Knowing I am attuned
to being alone
is the loss
that feels like a betrayal -
as though I have accepted
your absence.
Learning Living 