Snow Birds

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Dark-eyed juncos go to

combat over the

spilled seed.

It’s a thing to watch:

How such tuxedoed-sweetness

can suddenly transport

you to the ring-side of

tiny fighting cocks.

But they never hold a grudge.

And I saw one bow and yield

to an injured song sparrow,

its left foot grotesque but

still holding weight.

I’m not sure if there is anything

sweeter on late winter mornings

than the white-throat beginning

to retell his story about

“Old Sam…”

I do like how he leaves the plot

to me,

year after year.

I must admit to being rather

annoyed by some scientist’s

reclassification of

chickadees and titmice:

I’m not supposed to say,

Parus anymore.

And this is my growing

frustration

with science,

A human endeavor

increasingly

void of romance.

I’ll tell you this:

All of the best scientists

were also mystics.

And so, I’ve decided that

the mixed foraging flock

cracking black oil sunflowers

at my feeder

are whatever they want to be.

And, I will love them.

And be in awe of their

ability to weather a storm

from which the majority of

the people in this county

are still hiding.

Yes, awe.

That is the right word

for snow birds.

©2013-2016/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"
Published by Hiraeth Press
www.hiraethpress.com

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Tracks

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I am too late they say.

He or she passed by here

some time ago,

loping and then bounding.

Pairs of halfish moons.

Linear constellations of halfish moons.

That’s how I know.

That’s childhood magic

that remains, still,

this knowing come not

from books,

but from a deer who showed

me how to read her imprint

long before I was instructed that

deer and humans weren’t

the same species.

Deep breath.

I’m not going to lie.

I believe I was instructed,

wrongly.

© 2013-2015/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"
Published by Hiraeth Press

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The Winter Garden

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Is it possible to tend snowflakes?

This my question

On a bitter winter morning when,

for five days slow in their progression,

the only human-made sound is

that of my breath feeding

the trees.

If the white meadow

and the white woods

were to become my garden,

Oh, I’d be rich in harvest!

And, why not?

Isn’t what we harvest of this world,

a choice?

Could it not be an entire mountainside

of singular, crystalline snowflakes

that sustains me?

Yes.

Yes!

I want to be this kind of gardener:

The one carrying

baskets full of beauty,

and imagination.

©2013-2016/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight" 
Published by Hiraeth Press
www.hiraethpress.com

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The Armadillo

Even the armadillo,

tucked within his banded armor,

maintains a soft underbelly.

It is possible for you to say, “No!”

while holding love

in your heart -

Love for yourself,

and love for other.

Unconditional love,

does not equal

unconditional relationship.

Your boundaries are there

to hold you in a blessed

embrace,

To wrap around that which

is so worthy of protection.

To be a medicine blanket.

There is a reason that “No!”

was one of the first words

your child-mouth uttered:

You are precious,

And that little one of you knew it,

knew it like breath,

knew it like giggles,

knew it like the wonderment

of every first.

Knew it in the kicks and screams,

tears and flush red face

when something just

wasn’t right.

I wish that I could have been

there that moment,

that fragile decisive moment,

when someone convinced

you that you weren’t

good anymore.

Not good.

Not good enough.

Not good.

Not worthy.

Not worthy enough

for,

“No!”

But I wasn’t there.

No true adult was;

Somewhere along the way

the initiation rites

were wronged.

So,

Now we must listen

ever so carefully

to the elders:

The armadillo says,

“Let love be your softness.”

“Let love,

 be your softness.”

Take a leap of faith:

Love yourself and

our collective future

enough to say, “No!”

to everyone and everything

that violates the soul.

© 2013-2019/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in 'Wild Life: New and Selected Poems' 

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