Ephemeral Certainty

  

 

A Light exists in Spring

Not present on the Year

At any other period —

When March is scarcely here

 

A Color stands abroad

On Solitary Fields

That Science cannot overtake

But Human Nature feels.

 

It waits upon the Lawn,

It shows the furthest Tree

Upon the furthest Slope you know

It almost speaks to you.

 

Then as Horizons step

Or Noons report away

Without the Formula of sound

It passes and we stay —

 

A quality of loss

Affecting our Content

As Trade had suddenly encroached

Upon a Sacrament.

EMILY DICKINSON

 

  The Osprey pair came back last week. There's no 

mistaking that high pitched, mournful cry as they soar overhead. 

I forget about that sound over the winter, since they migrate south together. But I instantly recognize those long whistles as they return early each spring to the site of last year's nest in order to make a new one for this year. 

 I know about Ospreys, because this pair of birds has been nesting on the next door neighbor's broken boat lift for the past few years. They didn't bother anyone, and no one bothered them. I watched them construct their big messy nest, take turns incubating their eggs, fish and feed the young hatchlings and finally send the whole family for a spin overhead.

 The problem for these birds is that their former nesting site had been ripped down, 

covered with spiked caps, and replaced with a boat.  

After a few days of circling overhead, they seemed to have

 solved that minor problem with ease. They just began to build their usual nest on the T Top of the boat instead. 

 

What else would one expect them to do?

       It is still foggy, cool and gray here, but other signs of spring are beginning to flash.

                                 

    

    It is not at all obvious. But maybe, as the poet says, you can feel it. Look closely.

     Of course I look more to the plants.

 The early bud swell, the soft, often hairy fingers of leaves,

the grasp relaxing around flower buds is slow and sensual.  

The unveiling is provocative. The anticipation builds.

 Yet as slow as it is, as she says, it is changed- gone- in a relative instant.

That magnificently folded plant flesh will soon be

 a full, open, elegant structure.

        

The clouds of yellow pine pollen are not so

 subtle, well known signs of spring. Yet that pollen seems to sneak up on us every year.

 

         And sticks to everything...

                

             including water.

 It will happen this way year after year, without need of a calendar

reminder. If I am lucky, I can enjoy the light of those early, 

deliberate moments all over again.

 

If I am luckier still, I will feel it first.

"She turned to the sunlight and shook her head,

and whispered to her neighbor: 'Winter is dead.”

 

A.A. Milne     "When We Were Very Young"

 

Just Ask Emily

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring –

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –

The Dews drew quivering and Chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses' Heads

Were toward Eternity –

 EMILY DICKINSON 

Our friend Charlotte died on Saturday. She was not terribly sick for very long, and walked willingly into the hands of God, as was her way. She spent the better part of the last year making sure that her friends and family knew that she was ready to go when she must. She pulled no punches.
Charlotte was a pistol - " a person with a lot of verve and personality, and the sort you don't forget."  She was an infectious gardener and plantswoman; a woman of both words and deeds; one smart cookie. She liked "pretty things". She loved to celebrate- she loved dinner parties, beer, wine, fancy hors d'oeuvres, candles and flowers, bourbon. She liked her food spicy, and her hugs big and tight. She was the driving force behind the Piedmont Gardeners Spring Garden Tour, held every third Saturday in April for the last 25 years. That tour not only encouraged the love of gardening in the Athens, Ga, area, but raised scholarship money to support horticulture and design students at UGA. And best of all, she was a beloved mother to her two girls, and dearest "Mimi" to her four granddaughters.

We got the news of her death on a visit to Massachusetts. We were there to visit our granddaughter Olive, but spent a little time doing other things while Olive was in school. One of those things was a tour of Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst. It has been a good long time since I have seriously read Emily's poetry, but there are a few poems whose first lines, at least, I remember. And it occurs to me now that the approach Emily Dickinson took with her poetry was much the same as Charlotte's approach to life and to death. She was straightforward, precise, directly to the point even on tough subjects, but with a creative flair, a lilt, maybe a sly wink.

The weekend would have been sad for us but for Olive.
Olive is a hoot. She's got a twinkle in her eye, and plan in her head. Her smiles and spark kept us energized, enthusiastic, swingin' and slidin'.

Olive is 21 months, but she can say most anything she wants. Her chatter is non-stop. If you say something to her, she'll repeat it. If you ask her something, she mostly nods and says "Yep". She loves reading, she loves puzzles, she loves being outside, she loves all sorts of food. She is pure joy to be with; a light touch to a heavy heart. I've spent some time mulling over the emotions stirred up over those few days. As it turns out, Emily had already figured it out for me, and put it in words that even I could understand.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

 EMILY DICKINSON