Here is a re-post of a poem I posted last April 14. I can’t believe that Oriole was here already in mid-April last year. But this may have just been me hoping for their return to the hollow. I don’t know.
Through the Door
These are the doorways. The passages
where wonder enters the soul on tiptoe.
Here is the speedwell,
up from the earth and smiling through snow.
The breath of the wind
on the ice-white wing of the gull.
the beating heart of the honeybee,
and the black lace veil of the monarch.
The moment of hush before sunrise.
These are the liminal spaces.
The cocked arm and quiet face of a sleeping child.
The birth of a new idea.
The rousing of thought to action
and action to hope.
The hope that is borne
on the wings of the wren.
The way the weight of sadness
will slide away from your eyes
to make a little room for joy.
This is the breaking news of the heart.
First the aconite and speedwell,
then windflower and crocus.
These are the vanguard, the silent scouts.
For the purposes of this poem
I will be equating gratitude with wonder
and wonder with spring.
Wonder enters on tiptoe.
A flash of impossible orange
flickers high in the sycamore.
From the newest leaves
on the highest branch
comes a rustling, then a whistle
like calling a dog.
The oriole returns to summon the summer home.
And you–you may stand in the doorway
as long as you like.
Let that bright bird
open spaces for new joy
to fill the rooms
where sadness used to be.
That poem appears on page 18 of my new book.
Buy it here.
1. A wonderful job interview today at a place where I can happily imagine myself. I know better than to assume anything, but if I do not get the job, I am still extremely grateful for the chance to talk about things that matter to me, and for the boost that this has given to my confidence.
2. The way dreams work their way into daytime realities and help to navigate the emotional landscape.
3. Robin’s eggs. I have found three or four already this spring, and I can see where the careful pecking from inside opened them.
4. Sunlight through ferns.
5. The Birds of Fire. This morning, thinking I was seeing a pair of blackbirds squabbling in the poplar tree, I was amazed to see that they were actually the rusty glowing embers of the Orchard Oriole. A few minutes later, trying to find where the Baltimore Oriole was singing way at the top of the poplar, I suddenly saw that dancing orange flame of a bird, flitting from branch to branch. Then Beauty, she said, “But wait! There’s more!” And this evening after supper, she showed us the dazzle of a scarlet tanager burning away in the pear tree. And whose heart can encompass all that color–all that fire–in one day?
May we walk in Beauty!