Friday, March 28, 2008


Westerly winds cast downward in gusts of weeping grey
shivering through stark spaces of lonely birch bodies
with long fingertip branches
reaching a hollow sky
like a prayer that has lost it's way
in the wet remnants of weathered tears

Affirming colour fades into a landscape of dulling dusk
light filtered through clouded apathy
scraping energy
from willows too tired to weep
from pine too burdened to stand tall
casting shadows no one can see
in the grey powdered pallour of mourning.
Flickering dots alight whistling safe haven streets
opening blurried eyes refocusing gold on grey hope
seeking out the sound of reassurance
it's rays stretching out
to tickle invisible shadows
like a prayer seeping soundwaves of lights
over the land too tired to lift it's head.

Nature's canvas last night really seemed bleak while my dog Lily and I walked up on Springhill Road. At first, it knocked whatever energy I had left at the end of the day right out of me. I found my thoughts to be swirling in negativity as I swore at the black and white and grey landscape. The clouds blocked all hope of a sunset. There would be no moon, no stars last night. Out of the blue it seemed, wet snow began to drop unpredictably.........just enough to be irritating. I walked on while Lily made her way along a snowbank in search of a stick.

March in Canada is definately not a time to be promoting tourism. The sleepiness of hibernation still aches in the bones of this nation. It's true. However, so is the dogged determination to fight get outside, to plan for spring. A little bit of sunlight to begin the meltdown of accumulation carries a medicinal essence which is craved and sought. Everyone may look too pasty to be healthy. Winter coats and paraphenalia have a sorrowful look of a well worn uniform. Mittens, which have long lost their fancy fur to mottled overuse, are seen like roadkill on the sides of roads. Winter boots reek of telltale cycles of wet and dry and wet and dry. Salt stain remnants tatoo the season.

We seek out our clothes, in our food, in our music, books, creative endeavours...........spice and colour to reinforce an awakening. Dark colours are replaced by shades of Easter affirmation. Depression has an opponent now that we're nearing the transitions of the seasons..........a four letter word..................HOPE.

The vista canvas I saw last night at dusk was like a black and white photo. It stretched as far as I could see up the Saint John River valley..... In it's own way, it was starkly beautiful. Then, the streetlights came on on the other side of the river. It was like someone took the photograph and wired it with dots of light. Have you ever seen one of those kitchy pictures? It resembled that kind of scene. The warmth altered automatically, as did my energy level....... as did my love for where I live.

We have very distinctive seasons here and I like that a lot. March (and you could argue November fits this bill too) is a season all on its own I think because of it's feel of deadness and apathy. It's like a forgotten prayer.........or perhaps one that no one hears.....muffled in the wandering aimlessness of the day. It's the persistance of spirit that remains unmuffled, albeit hidden under the layers, which helps us appreciate the gifts of nature just waiting to be uncovered.
Our appreciation runs deep when one is just waking up from hibernation. The sap is running................sweet sleepy life tastes golden.

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