The Fish Pond Cottage Book of Days

Where has Sarah been? Well to be honest, writing anything lately has been a bit of a challenge – and one that I’ve been a little too ready to avoid. That just didn’t feel right, so I’ve found a way to gently ease back into the writing waters. I’ve begun keeping a sort of “book of days” – 5 minutes of writing (strictly about the house, yard, garden, trees, etc.) and a 5 minute sketch with my watercolor pencils and ink. It’s just a simple way to mark the days in this new space of mine (and keep writing at least something) until I am ready to dive back into poetry.

I will share a few of my Fish Pond Cottage Book of Days entries here and there in between catching up with the many, many writing blogs I’ve neglected recently. I look forward to reading what I’ve missed!

Keep safe! ❤

what the day contains

brown drifts of coffee grounds,
and the tappings of the black-capped chickadee
finding rhythm with the tick-ticking
of spring rain on new-green locust leaves
the passing hours mold the morning
into the firmer lines of day,
tracing the flights of fugitive birds –
red hawk, wren, house finch, crow,
ubiquitous dust-winged sparrow
shadows lazily skate and shift,
thumbing plants and spines of books,
shelves graced with inconsequential treasures –
of feather, stone, and sloping shell
the peonies on the window,
barely beyond their prime,
settle into fading brilliance
with unabashed aplomb
and if it might seem I forget you
amidst this gentle roster –
you’re the one, though absent,
who gives the hours their reason
and this simple room, its light

© Sarah Whiteley

in my truest life…

at Shi Shi, Sept 2015

in my truest life,
I have learned
to know my own bones

and to love
the companionship
of my own thoughts
when alone

and yet to
appreciate still
the return to home

© Sarah Whiteley

*

listening to the day’s
wakening heartbeat,
the unseen thrush
trilling in the still-dark
before the January dawn,
I can almost sense you
turn in your sleep –
and this is my survival:
even in the act of leaving
I am always coming home

© Sarah Whiteley

In one more short month, I’ll be heading (again) into lengthy workdays and ungodly hours. Somehow the thought of it is even more difficult this time around knowing there’s a warm and wonderful soul waiting for me at home. And yet… there’s a warm and wonderful soul waiting for me at home! How lucky am I?

sweeping up

so many of the places
where we were are gone
as if an unseen hand
were sweeping up
after us after closing
after the late shadows
have pushed the last shreds
of day into quiet evening
even then there were crickets
and smells of coffee shops
and wisteria that dripped its
scent like soft voices
calling after us after we passed
newspapers and shared quips
and lazy meandering walks
counting mosses and lilacs
and cats slinking from porch steps
our last spot – the one
we most called ours –
will be gone within the year
and chairs, tables, cups,
and flowered cloths will be pulled
from our little corner
where none but our comfort breathed
walking by in late afternoon,
the hollow sound of an empty cup
as it hits the table
echoes in blooms within
birthing sudden ripplings
in what so often now lies still
so that the pinch makes me pause
we may not recover,
but we do walk on

© Sarah Whiteley

a song of home

song in silvery descent
beats in sweet repeats
the tug of lodestones,
the clamant lure
of westward-leading
winding winds,
I sing the binding beck
of springing grove
and blooming troves of heather,
let the tune renew
the sweet enchantments
the road has written
upon my straying shade,
in engaging turns,
in immeasurable measure,
render the notes that lead
back beyond between
to that garden without walls
and the elemental charm
of the wanderer wending home

© Sarah Whiteley

home

in the hollow house
the drapes hang empty
and vases hold dust
where lilacs once were propped
by careful fingers
that chair
has always sat vacant
though the only two who knew
have gone somewhere on
the winds
have scattered weeds
into the garden
where she left rue
and forget-me-nots
at the time
without thinking of regret
or of forgetting
the clouds
have cast his shadow
from the corners
and the rains
have run her fleeting footprints
down the drive
past the evening songs
of the frogs in spring
she’d pass them
listening to the patterns
and plays of drops
on her umbrella
her mind a mass
of green and grey
the encroaching signs
of wandering
and winding wants that wakened
with the awakening earth
they grew so bright and rampant
alongside the buttercups
until her breath was tight
and pained her
and she could no longer
share her air
but there beneath the pine
above the brambles
and the sweet stars
that have long wound themselves
into the grasses
so long as he lies dreaming
she recalls the hollow house
with the crickets calling
beneath the porch
as home

© Sarah Whiteley

journeying

it begins with a walk
through sweet bee fields
between trees that speak
of mornings beneath
the mountain’s gaze
left far behind
when the wanderer
became the lost
it starts with the tread
of regretful soles
along the streams
where the northern birch
drink the day
and point the way
through the pass
passed by
what feels like
so very long ago
walk soft by the step
where the stone cat rests
keeping her watch
over discarded gardens
where it began with a walk
from the sweet bee fields
from the trees that breathe
an entreaty of home

© Sarah Whiteley

mapping the path

dust off the trail
and waken the winds
bend back the grasses
and point the birds
flying home
unpack the sky
and cast the stars
across the plain
retrace those lines
of our goodbye
leave today
for the beggars
and tomorrow
for the young
it’s yesterday’s gold
that shines
like the dawn
pull out the map
creased and torn
and follow the road
where we’ve
been and gone
follow the path
all the way home

© Sarah Whiteley

before rain

after the sun
before the night
the tang of rain
the final fleeting
of feathers
as the birds
fly home
would I were them
momentary flight
the transitory gleam
of reaching home
after the sun
before the night
before rain

© Sarah Whiteley