December’s iron door has opened
and the trees seem more deeply rooted,
tucked further into stillness
winter may heave its bitter winds,
yet the trees depict the difference
between moving and being moved
© Sarah Whiteley
Tag / wind
just hum
November blows in
bearing a hundred
different songs
about her wind,
leaving one ditty
to rattle and drum
upon the limbs
of the locust
you know this one,
I tell myself,
if you’ve forgotten
the words, just hum
© Sarah Whiteley
November is upon us, and I’m not quite sure what happened to September and October. But then I suppose a crazy schedule will do that to a person and before you know it, days and whole weeks slip away without a leaving any impression at all other than a chaotic blur.
Things have calmed down a bit for me finally and I am determined to get back to the habit (and pleasure) of writing. For the month of November, I am tasking myself with drafting at least one poem a day. Many of these won’t be posted – they’ll be put aside to be tweaked later with the intention of compiling them into a new manuscript. But it feels good to set my mind to a creative task. One that will leave an impression and will keep the days from slipping by without remark.
And one of these days, I’ll post an update about the crows. They’re gathering their numbers for the winter roost, so I will at least try first to capture a quick video of them tagging along for an autumn walk with the dogs (which always turns heads in the neighborhood).
Happy November to all!
*
the wind and I walked,
and let the sun sleep in
just a few minutes more,
– just this once –
so that we might hear
our stray-dog thoughts
before the interrupting
layers of birdsong
© Sarah Whiteley
wind follows wind
wind follows wind,
as would the grasses
were they not rooted –
relegated to whispering
wayfarers’ songs
this evening I carry
that elsewhere urge –
a glow of foot,
the rise of thigh –
the sort of sky to set
wings to trembling
© Sarah Whiteley
*
it is late and rain falls on rain
all day long the wind called,
tumbling through the trees
unable to answer, I sit now beside
the open window imagining
that wild intensity of scent –
damp pine before the day awakens
© Sarah Whiteley
My newest chapbook Wandering Wonderful is now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press. Pre-orders through March 22nd will have an opportunity to win a canvas print of the cover art. Click for details!
a birthday poem
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.
June crows
four crows in the June grass
watch me watching them
from my bright blanket,
while the fifth plucks sprigs
of blooms from the chestnut
an all-at-once wind teases
white petals into yellow light –
a sudden floral flotilla
and the fifth crow flies with one,
two, three sprouted sprigs
and I from my bright blanket
reaching into the world –
admiring the petals,
yet never wondering
who the bouquet is for
© Sarah Whiteley
last night, the trees
last night, the trees stood up
and proclaimed their poetry
to one another
something in the twilight
inspired them, though not everyone
paused to hear it
but I and the day’s last robin
halted our respective routines
to acknowledge what was clearly
extraordinary
© Sarah Whiteley
like the lake
like the lake, I am much less talkative
than say the creek cantering east,
teasing the low-hanging ferns to trembling
we lakes embrace rather than chase,
swallow whole those stones that settle
to long years of mute stillness
we are content with the stir and shift of winds,
with the lined glide of a pair of loons,
returning to the calm lull of a cat-tailed inlet
© Sarah Whiteley
April windstorm
the winds that rushed in yesterday
to strip branches of their blooms
flipped trash can lids, sent them
spinning down the street,
cast crows into chaotic aeronautics
and sent all songbirds deep
into their shrubbed shelters
but today, they come out singing
blithely tumbling between trees,
the sidewalks surprised by pink –
awash in piles of petals
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 