Winter’s Unwanted Hug

A prose poem

It’s mid-January as I walk around my backyard and contemplate our situation. Half of the yard is paved with concrete squares the color of old blood as though all feet who walked here dripped like the steps of Jesus to the cross. The other half snakes with the roots of my 45+ year old Magnolia tree (I say mine; it is no human’s)  interspersed with slabs of rock layed with our own hands many years ago. It is my labyrinth-like path for walking and thinking. Today I’m thinking about nuns and monks who choose a cloistered life away from the clamor of the world, its wars and brutalities. How their days are simmered down to the essence of life, giving attention to the smallest details and holding them close. As I walk the perimeters of my backyard, I notice the smallest details of this day. The smell of the crisp winter air, how it chills my nostrils and clears my head, the rustle of the wind in the bamboo speaking it’s wisdom if I’ll only listen, the flick of a squirrel’s tail telling me he wants more peanuts, please, to warm his belly. The fallow of winter holds me in an unwanted hug, holds me in this moment and says Be!