if I could freshen the day
like flowers kept
in the ironstone pitcher –
trim away the wilt,
snip the calloused ends,
gather up the fallen curls
of color from the floor
if I could invite the breeze
to brighten the gray
garland of winter hours –
I might better stand the sting
of lingering February
and find the light
amidst the hardened snow
© Sarah Whiteley
My newest chapbook Wandering Wonderful is now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press.
in the blue light
of an icy February dawn,
everything is crisp
everything has edges
that crumble and crunch
and the wide mouth
of the wind shows its teeth
as it comes surging
around the corner
of my 43rd year
once every year
we meet in some manner,
this time it is with
cold-bitten fingers,
head down against the wind
though here and there
a few power lines
may be leaning low,
you may be certain
we will meet this way again
© Sarah Whiteley
Snow on Sunday night and two inches of ice on the roads in my neighborhood. Tomorrow I turn 43 and I can’t remember the last time I had snow on my birthday. It’s not such a common thing in Seattle, and so usually I have to go in search of it up into the mountains and foothills if I want some of the white stuff. This year, I can just step outside my door.
My newest chapbook Wandering Wonderful is now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press.
for the sixth time since November,
the heat’s gone out – the radiator sits silent
there is no weight of heavy snows here
to bear down upon roofs or wool-shod shoulders,
yet the dark leans in against the windows,
its own weight overwhelming the small hours
for once, Time in its grand arc is on our side –
as are the dogs exuding contentment,
as is the glass of whiskey on the pale marble
table by the deep-seated chair
either the radiator will rattle tomorrow,
or it will remain cool in dormancy –
but in the morning, I will seek the green tips
of emerging hyacinth – gift and promise both
© Sarah Whiteley
thirty-two water crossings
and just shy of ten miles
later, I might discover
a jealousy of this stone
but for now I am here and
its perspective is mine –
yes, it is possible to be
both cold and cradled
for exhilaration to rise
from old bones and leaf mold
I am more I, more in
while I am without
it is life that kisses me
through creek-wet feet
© Sarah Whiteley
every branch
was made big with wind
while we
sat diminished
hunkered down
with steaming cups,
muddied boots,
cold-red cheeks,
together beneath
that orange tarp
cracking
with every gust
we stayed,
shivered, laughing
while others
fled the storm –
a splendid day,
my splendid friend
© Sarah Whiteley
for once my crows
(my noisome watchers)
ignore the shrill complaints
of a wheeling gull
and crouch instead
on snow-tipped branches,
giving way to the whims
of a relentless wind
I’d invite them in
(my boot-blacked friends)
but they’d tease the dogs,
pluck my bright beads
from the lighted tree
and delightedly unwind
every blessed color
in the overflow of yarn
instead I stay ensconced
in dog-warmed blankets
and startlingly bright socks
and watch them accusingly
hunched in what I imagine
is a crowish glare
willing the chill of winter
through my windows
© Sarah Whiteley
The poor crows! It’s bright and beautiful outside at the moment, but it snowed overnight and there’s a very insistent wind out there with a decidedly arctic chill to it. I was swamped by all 5 of Coyote’s family this morning on my walk and I was sure to give them plenty of treats. I think Freyja was a little offended when the father across the street said “look at the birds!” to his little daughter instead of the usual “look at the doggie in the pretty sweater!”
Today is the perfect sort of day for hot chocolate and my largest knitting project on my lap. From where I sit, I can see the crows coming and going, stopping outside my window to see where the rest of their treats are.
My nailbeds are a lovely blueish purple right now. The building has steam radiators which are controlled from the boiler room with a timer, the timing of which is still apparently being worked out. The dogs are curled up in the bed and Angus has taken to sleeping in a ball with his tail over his nose – very fox-like – in order to keep warm.
I’m about to pull on socks and shoes and my coat before I head down the hill to the library and return Denise Levertov’s collected works. I haven’t finished it, but it’s due soon and I’ve added it to my Amazon wishlist in case some lovely family member needs an idea for a birthday present next year.
I discovered recently that she actually transplated herself to Seattle at some point in her life and is buried in the cemetery where I often take long, peaceful walks. A couple weeks ago, I made it a mission to find her headstone and managed it quite quickly as it has a very distinctive sculpture on top of it. She’s not far at all from Princess Angeline’s (Chief Seattle’s daughter) resting place and she’s very close indeed to my favorite tree in the cemetery – a massive copper beech with the most wonderful purple-y russet leaves.
I’ve begun to do some temp office work while I figure out what I want to do and where I want to go. The uncertainty is a bit stressful as there are other forces at play which will determine what happens in the next 6 months. But change is stressful and I knew that would be the case. We’ll make it through.
The crows have missed their daily treats – I usually leave before they’re awake and get home after dark. On Friday, Coyote happened to spy me while I was waiting for my morning bus. He rushed over, stood at my feet, and scolded me for my absence. Unfortunately I didn’t have anything in my pockets to offer him, so he went away disappointed. But not before attracting the attention of the other people waiting on the arrival of a bus. Yeah – crazy crow lady reputation justified.
I’ve been squeezing in time to write and do my little watercolor sketches, though I prefer daylight for the latter so I’m afraid painting will be a weekend endeavor for now.
Off to the library! And then home to a hot, hot shower to thaw feet and fingers.
Be well!
it was late November
when I drove toward Maine
I still hear how the wind
tore across the highway,
rattling doors and nearly
blowing that tired red Buick
into the frozen ditch
I had second, third – hell
sixth thoughts on the other
side of the state line,
but I kept right on –
forward was the only
way left even though
the pines all pointed
back the other direction
a body ought to listen
to things like weather
and the wind and when
either one isn’t at your back,
it might be that’s a sign
you should turn right around
and that just maybe somewhere
down around western Mass
a right instead of that left
might not have inflicted the kinds
of change that would alter the slant
of a year’s share of wakeful nights
but winter’s nothing way up there
if not a lesson, and my toes
nearly froze during that storm
when I tried to find my way
five miles on foot up that hill
to somewhere never home
through fourteen inches of snow
in flimsy shoes with branches
dropping shrapnel all around –
a few other things nearly
froze over, trust included,
and it’s a wonder I thawed
out at all and can carry on
as if it was nothing more
than a freak nor’easter moving
through or a turn in the wrong
direction against the wind’s advice
two hundred or so miles back
down east was the only place
I’ve ever had to lie to live
or pick a lock to save my own skin
five degrees below zero –
twenty minutes spent just chipping
at that ice to use a bent hanger –
something I used to think only
worked in the movies but prayed
to God it could be otherwise
in the end hope won out
and I fled west with a new
appreciation for thick soles
and the warnings pine trees
and a good strong wind
might heap at a vagrant’s feet
but these are the things
I don’t speak of
and thank-the-lord don’t often
think of, save now and again
when a freezing wind
rattles at my windows –
some frenzied remnant
fighting to be let back in
and sometimes –
the old familiar ice still
finds a way beneath the sill
© Sarah Whiteley
Know this is outside of my norm, but have been wanting to clean the cobwebs out of this particular closet for a while now. Wrote this years ago and never posted it as it never felt “right” – but have reached the moment when I’ll tweak and peck it at no more. And in return, it will tweak and peck at ME no more!
Sunday morning,
coffee made strong,
maple donuts fetched,
and you still asleep –
wrapped up deep
within my blankets
against the bustling cold
from my open windows
me in my chair,
mug in hand,
feet curled beneath me –
torn between watching
the startling sight
of a hummingbird
in fresh snow or the slow
rise of your shoulders
in bearish hibernation
© Sarah Whiteley
I did see a little hummingbird Sunday morning in the snow. I know of at least two feeders within a block, so I’m sure he’s getting fed, but still startling to see the little guy in the snow.
it is a sparse sort of day
of struggling light
and freezing hours and hands
that can’t ward away
the numb from stiff fingers
the crows are quibbling
over something fallen
in the street beneath
the lamp post where in
twos and fives they’ve
taken to diving at it
and at each other
quarrelsome in the weak
late afternoon light
best to remain inside
with the kettle on
and feet swathed in
double pairs of
defiant-colored socks
© Sarah Whiteley
Is it too soon to be wishing for spring? I found myself looking forward to cherry blossoms already yesterday.
ebbtide 