a low winter sun

a hawk cries

under

this low winter sun—

(i wonder if hawks pray

for the return of the light....)

with a few strong wing-beats

and supreme aerodynamic design,

the great talons let go

and glide out over snowy expanses....

(the effortless mastery

the inborn skill

the unquestioning quest

under all conditions

slay me....)

while we cower or shiver or snuggle-in

and count the days to longer light,

to hope and warmth—

in the face of our constant

human doubt—

our frantic celebrations

and incantations,

the hawk searches for food

regular as the sunrise—

surveys the ground

rides the updrafts

expends its precious energy

when necessary....

all its movements efficient

and filled with a grace

so stunning

that we stand still

and thrill to its

shrill call

floating

from the heavens—

(a place we can never

put our bodies

on our own....)

the hawk’s daily sky-sail

implies ‘where’

not ‘if’—

this is faith:

outside of our suffering thoughts

all of nature functions in

flawless rotation....

every day

demonstrating

the perfect operation

of mystery....

________________

©2013

beth anne boardman

the not-so-empty

butterflies hummingbirds and spiders

helped raise my children....

today i thanked them:

risen from my empty bed,

gone out of my empty house,

into my empty garden—

  

i stopped

under summer-sunlit gold-streaming

leafy old beings, rife with patience

(the trees, not me!)

the otherworld beckoned:

a stained-glass-molten-golden swallowtail

ribboned into my vision....

stepping further under the trees—

a web-festoon drew

across my face....

(the spider,

golden too,

arced away to safety....)

a hummingbird, wings a-haloed,

paused over the open hillside

(not feeding, not chasing a mate, not hiding)....

i felt

the constancy

of their attention,

(and of all things winged and wafted)

and i thanked them for reminding me:

the otherworld nets around us,

throughout childhood....

or day or night,

or now....

•

i still see them

making secret tunnels under bushes....

(the children, not the spiders.)

(well, the children and the spiders.)

i hear their gleeful chirps

in the climbing-trees....

(the hummingbirds too!)

daring each other higher,

shouting as they leap from limb to grass....

(how the webs and the wings encircled

 my anxious moments....)

the pangs of their empty spots

(on couch and floor and very own beds)

sting me....

but—

the hummingbirds, butterflies, and spiders

still come around

like nothing has changed!

and maybe nothing has....

i live the age-old dance

of love and let go, and ‘a blessing on your journey!’

and walk from under the trees to meet the unknown

like mother after mother before me....

___________________

©2013

beth anne boardman

...through birds and rain

i hear god through birds and rain....

when a  million green leaves rustle

under a breeze
laden with tiny droplets....

and how does birdsong echo
in this loamy rich forest?

i opened the car door
outside a filled church
and in poured this majesty:

a stirring wind
a brush of warm water
a pure clear note arcing, falling, landing
     from some high, secret place....

how could i leave?

world without end....

_______________
©2013
beth anne boardman