The words come easy or they don’t. Propelled by emotion or memory, a written piece can flow like air, like breath itself, or it can linger somewhere outside my access, forcing me to search among the words for combinations that bring it to light.
Morning came easily today, wakening slowly in my back yard, exposing the remnants of the last few snow storms, now dotted with bits and pieces of the overhanging trees. A large mound of snow persists under the kitchen window, shaded as it is by the house. It has been decorated with a minimalistic flair, adorned with a lovely autumn-decorated maple leaf that is exquisite. I feel like I should rescue it, bring it inside and preserve it for just being so beautiful.
A few less lovely birch leaves have somehow made it to the top of the snow. The old clump birch which the arborist told me should be cut down is still standing tall on the side of the hill. We planted it over 30 yeas ago and, given that it was supposed to live only 15 years, it has outperformed spectacularly.
“You should cut that tree down,” he said. “Birches aren’t strong. A good snowfall and the main trunk could break off and hit your house”
I’ve known about birches and snow for years. There hasn’t been a year that has passed when I haven’t gone outside to shake that trunk of its snow cover, sometimes even hitting it for a better release. But, as weak as the trunk of that birch is, it is also flexible, bending under the burden of the snow to touch the roof of the family room, perhaps resting there. The snow melts, the tree rights itself and we go on for another year, its shade and decorative bark a stunning addition to the ever-changing yard.
Morning has given way to mid-day and the early musings have been supplanted by the hounding of a short but insistent list of things that have to be addressed. There are beds to make, laundry to do and letters to write. Yes, letters, but not the kind that only live in my fantasies, the kind written on a drop-front desk on linen, maybe even scented, papers. These are the substitutes for Valentine’s Day cards, notes, sometimes long notes, encapsulating a friendship, a loving relationship, memories of good times.,
These are easy words, derived from the experience of being a sister, an aunt, a grandmother, a friend. I had intended to write poems, but poetry is failing me today, and yet maybe, as I write, the muse will come and I will be able to capture what I mean to say in ways that flow beyond the words.
Isn’t that the art of the word, to bring a special meaning above the definitions, engendering transcendent feelings.
The birch is doing well, even without my ministrations. The afternoon light is bringing a softness to the yard as birds search among the detritus of the trees and shrubs for food. In the days passing, the birch may be the poem.
I’ll write those letters and, if I am lucky, a poem or two.
