november

Sunset On The Last Day Of Hunting Season

What deer still remain are far back in the woods by now.

They count their losses.  The others count

their trophies.  The score is even.

It's always a tie in the duality game.

Small Ponds 

Small ponds freeze first,

in the beginning, with just a film

at sunrise you wouldn't even

notice and then a crust

that lasts till noon.  Now half-sunk slush

doesn't melt and the conspiracy of molecules

spreads to lakes.  In the stillness

of a single night, when one breath

of wind might make the difference

between water and ice, solid reaches in and in

and grasps the last ripple for its own.

Vision Statement

Imagine swans

                       with black wingtip

           soaring in wedges,

wheeling on a sullen sky –

Imagine these snow geese

                       in late November

           scouting out a plausible lake

just before freeze-up –

Imagine we, too,

                       are that beautiful,

           streaming transparence,

aloft and countless,

heading home.

Joan Ruvinsky

Photos:  Peter Bowers

Joan Ruvinsky and Peter Bowers

november 

remembering  

her many faces

and none at all

t

revelation must be terrible

 

Revelation must be

  terrible with no time left

to say goodbye.

Imagine that moment,

  staring at the still waters,

with only the brief tremor

of your body to say

  you are leaving everything

and everyone you know behind.

Being far from home is hard, but you know,

  at least we are all exiled together.

When you open your eyes to the world

you are on your own for

  the first time.  No one is

even interested in saving you now

and the world steps in

  to test the calm fluidity of your body

from moment to moment,

as if it believed you could join

  its vibrant dance

of fire and calmness and final stillness.

As if you were meant to be exactly 

  where you are, as if, 

like the dark branch of a desert river

you could flow on without a speck

  of guilt and everything

everywhere would still be just as it should be.

As if your place in the world mattered

  and the world could

neither speak nor hear the fullness of

its own bitter and beautiful cry

  without the deep well

of your body resonating in the echo.

Knowing it takes only

  that first, terrible 

word to make the circle complete,

revelation must be terrible

  knowing you can

never hide your voice again.

David Whyte

River Flow: New and Selected Poems

Photo: Peter Bowers