Posts Tagged ‘writing’
a moment of beautiful – tracks in the snow
the space: new fallen snow
the beautiful: a Red Squirrel’s tracks
~
An expanse of new fallen snow is like an unwritten page. When you find something written there, it is a message of beauty.
In our driveway, after the last snow, a Red Squirrel was the first to write on the ‘page’. The prints were delicate, traced in blue shadows.
~
Our Red Squirrels are certainly not afraid of the snow.
digging for sunflower seeds
red squirrel with snow accumulating on his head
~
~
a love letter, unsigned
~
the meadow in winter
a sheet of paper
folded
where the stream
flows under the ice
~
the sky
an envelope
lined in blue
~
tracks on the snow
cautious
afraid
words
pressed to the page
~
erased
(erased)
by melting
or a dusting
of new snow
~
~
Published as: ‘a love letter, unsigned’, 1999, Green’s Magazine XXVII (2): 44.
Copyright Jane Tims 1999
firepit
Our firepit has a roaming spirit. It began its days in front of the house and we had many wonderful evening fires. Then, as the years passed, the maple tree overhead grew until it was dangerous to have a fire under such a thick canopy.
To improve the safety of the firepit, I moved it, stone by stone to the back of the house, reassembling it exactly as it was. We had a few fires and then, one day, our lives became busy. We kept taking wood for the next fire and the next fire never happened. Gradually the pile became so large, you could not see the firepit!
Last month, my husband put our tractor to use to move the firepit one more time. I clawed my way into the pile of scrap wood and uncovered the stones. Then we pushed them into the bucket of the tractor and away they went, to their new home across the yard.
Now they are in the driveway, waiting for their new home (see the plan in ‘plans for a rocky road’ November 13, 2011 under the category ‘the rock project’).
The next step will be to fell four spruce trees in the area of the firepit, to make sure we can have our fires safely. This next step may have to wait until spring since the stones are now in the frozen throes of winter!
fire
~
rattle of leaves
bark, twigs
and paper
as the air warms
finds its chimney
surges red life
into the tunnel of maple
the moment when breath
turned cloudy on cold air
becomes smoke
and lungs draw ash and fire
~
the summer night
when lightning strikes
when thunder
bold in its dreaming
turns beneath the earth
ions leap
and pine sap explodes
in a fistful of sparks
~
the warming by smiles
and clasping of hands
striking of sparks in the tinder
the flame leaps
from candle to candle
~
the sharp ache
at the corner of an eye
where cinders and smoke
have gathered
lungs drawing fire and ash
an effort to breathe
and fingers
warm with tremble
~
© Jane Tims 1995
snow hollow at the base of a tree
Words are the tools of a writer’s craft. I literally wallow in words when I write a poem. Sometimes the right word comes immediately to mind. Sometimes I have to search for it, sometimes for days or weeks. When I do the final edits for a poem, I ‘press’ on every word, to make sure it is absolutely right.
Sometimes, I encounter an idea or image that seems to have no word. For example, I have searched for a word referring to the charming hollow that builds next to the base of a tree when the snow falls. Sometimes small animals use this hollow for a temporary den. Sometimes it’s a place where debris gathers, as it does in the corners of alleyways. Sometimes it is a calm, beckoning place where snow shadows rest in shades of olive green and blue.
I wonder if there is a name for these elusive places, perhaps in another language.
~
~
snow hollow
~
snow shuns the tree
manifest in the hollow
the empty gather of wind
at the base of the fir
~
where snow-shoe hares find
shelter or dry leaves skipping
across a crust of snow
assemble and rest
~
inside curve to fit
the spine of an animal
the heart of a man
curled against the cold
~
a place where shadows meet
select blue from the prism of all
indigo to illustrate the space
of no snow, no warmth, no light
~
~
© Jane Tims 2011
mood of the lake
One of the very enjoyable experiences of having a property near the lake is listening to the loons. There is a least one pair of loons on our lake and we see them often. Usually they call a few times at mid-day or in the evening. Their cries are varied, ranging from a laughing tremolo to distinctive and melancholy wails, hoots, and yodels.
We have always been interested in loons and the protection of their habitat. Loons are especially vulnerable to quickly changing water levels and wave action because they build their nests just at water level. `Watch Your Wake` programs help boaters protect loon habitat.
In 1994, we participated briefly in the North American Loon Project. Today there is a similar program, the Canadian Lakes Loon Survey, sponsored by Bird Studies Canada. This is a long term study, using data from volunteers, to assess the health of Canada’s loon population.
We had little time in those days to participate fully, but we did visit Peltoma Lake in southern New Brunswick, to look at the loons living there. My journal entry for our visit to Peltoma Lake reads:
May 1, 1994 Sunday
Trip to Peltoma Lake to see if there are any loons. We are preparing to canoe the lake
about three times this year to make observations. Disappointed at first
as the lake is lined with cottages and we could see no loons.
Then we stopped near a small bay and there they were
– nine black and white beauties! They left the cove as soon as they saw us.
I also wrote a poem about the lake – the mood of the poem suggests it must have been a damp and miserable day.
Last Sunday, we drove out to Peltoma Lake to take some photographs. The loons and most of the people are gone this time of year. Although it was cold, the lake sparkled in the sunlight and was anything but dreary.
Peltoma Lake– Sunbury County
~
Peltoma in rain
is a faded black and white photo
layers of misery, thick and still
the lake, the shore, the mist
the thin chill drizzle
~
in the coves
the cedar and birch swoon above the water
moved to tears at reflection
the lake broods
over her loons
and the cell-thick pall of algae
smoothed to the shore
~
cottages hug the lake
like campers huddle a fire
cheerless and smoky
pines on the esker reach
blank windows keep watch
for sparkle on waves
back flips from the dock
paddles flashing sun
the day is bleak without answer
~
a muskrat tows a line on the shallows
loons quit the cove
diminish to mist
~
Peltoma is scowling
~
© Jane Tims 1994
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