Spring

For Everything There Is a Season

It is time!

It is time for turning,
for leaning,
time for dancing,
time for climbing trees
and for spinning
in circles,
for turning your face
to the sky.

The puddles are full
to their brims. The birds
know it is time;
they sing in the
morning to turn
turn turn
the seasons
round to some
new purpose.

Don't you know?
Or are you too buried
in the bookish wool
of winter to
hear them
turning
their songs over
on themselves
like cartwheels?

Close your books,
just now. It is
time to stop
the click-clack
of brain with
words
with
work
and put on
rubber boots
and turn
(turn!)
the time
to now.

-------------------------------------

I dropped a class this spring. Not because it was too hard, or not interesting (it was wonderful) but because I needed soul time. It was one of the best ideas I've had. I'm trying to learn the art of quitting, of giving myself permission to not do everything, to not fill my time and my space with to-dos. Since I dropped that class I've started writing again, and not just because I have more time, but also because I have the spiritual energy to make poetry possible.

March in the River Valley

It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm in the middle of a very busy semester--three intense writing classes (I dropped a fourth as a sanity measure) rehearsals for a play, choir, and added responsibilities as student assistant to the religion department. I'm having a great time though. My classes, difficult as they are, are worth it. I'm starting research on what may ultimately become my senior thesis next year, on the topic of the language we use for God in communal worship. More on that later... it deserves its own post.

In the meantime, here's some poetry. Since I dropped that class (best idea ever!) I've had the time and spiritual energy to write again. It had been a while.

We here in St. Peter have been waking up to these stunning foggy mornings--and I've been thinking lately about the people who lived here before us. This land, by the Minnesota River on the edge of the prairie, was an important spot for the Sioux. There is a museum down the road a bit on the spot where the Sioux made a treaty (later broken, of course,) with the U.S. Government. And in Mankato, by the public library, is a statue of a buffalo--the only memorial representing the biggest mass execution in U.S. history, ordered by Abraham Lincoln in response to a Native uprising. I've been thinking how these stunning foggy mornings are older than all of us, and about those who, only 200 years ago, woke up to the same wet March beauty.

March Over the River Valley

This kind of morning is not something new—
the roundness of the air an ancient shape
and trees are dripping where they always grew,
the morning wearing wetness like a cape

around her airy shoulders, like she has
since first she learned to toss the dew-drops so
and hang them ‘cross the air to quiver as
a garment for her ritual of growth.

It is breath-catching to behold her thus!
Though I know I am not the first or last,
but rather member of the holy ‘us’
that catches by surprise her morning mass

over the valley filling up with light—
I’ve woken to an ancient holy sight.

I hope you all are well. If I haven't heard from you in a while, I'd love to know how you're doing. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail or a letter.

To quote an Ojibwe blessing we use at camp--
"let all around you be peace!"