What do you do to fight the rainy-day blues,
To push through the mud, the flood, and thunder
When it’s always spring but never Easter?
At the window watching lightning flicker—
The power, too—feel the pane as it shakes.
What do you do to fight the rainy-day blues?
New life for flowers, snails, mushrooms, and you?
You search in hope for new growth but it seems
That it’s always spring but never Easter.
Each drop’s surface tension is soft heartbreak,
Alone, trapped from within and without, but
That’s how life is with the rainy-day blues.
Like March, love warms and cools and warms again
And the future is clear as mountain fog
When it’s always spring but not yet Easter.
Glory in the mundane. Praise faithful work.
Do the next thing. Rest in what’s done for you.
That’s the way to fight the rainy-day blues—
For right now it’s spring, and soon it’s Easter.
Image: Redbuds, Walker County, Georgia, March 2020.
Each courtesy I am accustomed to
Becomes an act of thoughtless violence,
Posing threats to all save a trusted few.
Streets and schools become a pool of silence.
To stay at home and read a tome or play
A game or bake a pie or pause to cry
Or break a dish or eat a fish or pray
Makes no change to the gray and lukewarm sky.
Lenten paths of mourning lead to brooding,
Rustic joys like bread, butter, and laughter
Keep a light on, my soul now concluding,
“Look up, beauty is now and not after.
What is true is sad; what was good is bad,
Find some fearful symmetry or go mad.”
Image: Fungus, Branch, Moss, Snow—Hamilton County, Tenn., + original watercolor, February 2020.
A week of rain swells the runoff creek,
Its muffled roar suffusing the woods
As the blank-blue sky of Northern air
Sidles down the plateau to cradle
Our valley in momentary chill
Fixing in time every splashed droplet.
Winter in Tennessee is a pendulum.
Ice grasps rocks and branches, layer by
Layer accreting into crowds of
Overnight stalagmites and a lone
Ephemeral agate at the end
Of a string dangling from a footbridge
That sways with each splash, marking the time
Till warmth rushes back, which the ground knows
Well, watching an Iris bloom too soon.
Winter in Tennessee is a pendulum
Yellow light bursts from a stem, calling
January’s bluff for a moment,
But it dies—a raisin in the frost,
Hoping for a slice of spring before
The long flat note of summer goads it
To try for glory again next year.
Life in Tennessee is a pendulum.
Image: Ice pendulum, Glen Falls, Hamilton County, Tenn., January 2020
Was it for nothing that the blueberry
In the backyard,
Its fruit consumed,
Its year’s growth pruned,
Caught fire one morning?
I took off my shoes, there in the kitchen,
Beholding it aflame.
Is this newfound bioluminescence?
Can a shrub throb with photons
As surely as neon waves,
Plankton, a lampshade jelly,
The lure of a dragonfish,
Alive with luciferin like foxfire
That startles campers awake?
All life must glow, as dewdrops on a fern,
The shimmer of scales
On a fritillary wing,
Mucosal sheen of a passing slug.
If the paper-skin of the deceased
Can be translucent, then a blueberry
Bush may burn yet not be consumed.
Light is not light unless compared to dark,
And so my squinting
At the world, charged as it is,
Is for the dullness of my soul.
What sparkles through the glass
So dimly may be glory, or it may
Be the devil, crouching at the door.
Image: Blueberry bush, my backyard, November 2018.