Rolling Snowmen

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I can’t remember the last time I rolled

a snowman. I would have been a young girl,

wearing my hair in two long brown braids,

and blissfully naïve to what was coming,

ignorant of the fact that childhood can

end so abruptly,

and without warning, explanation, or apology.

Had I been wiser, I would have cherished

everything about that day:

I’d be able to tell you the color of the sky,

the rate of snow fall,

the size of the flakes,

the thickness of the pack,

and if it were wet or a little too dry.

Was it particularly cold?  Had my mother 

knitted my cap, or scarf?

Was the snow still falling while I made him,

or had it stopped?

How big was he? 

Certainly, I used a carrot for the nose. 

Rocks for eyes?  Was he smiling?

Did someone help? Younger sisters? The neighbor-kids?

And, what did it all smell like? There were pines 
in the front yard – one very big.

Is that where I learned that each species of pine 

has a different odor? Was I wrapped

in a perfume of pine and snow and happiness?

**

Now I’m going to show my age, and maybe some experience.

I have chosen to apprentice to

that which teaches me

to cherish every moment:

uncertainty

wonderment

gratitude.

The sky is platinum.

The snow is falling fast;

a dizzying cascade of thick, wet flakes

forming fluffy biceps on the boughs

of the evergreens, which,

yes, I can smell from the threshold of

my open front door – made of solid mahogany.

A male cardinal just called out.

I want to be sure to acknowledge him -

this crimson guardian of winter hope.

After all,

this could be my last poem.

Or, yours.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"

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Awakening

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Everything

I see and hear

is some form of life, saying:

“I want to wake up.

I want to be alive again.

I have slept long enough in darkness.

I am here.”

The titmouse in its song.

The daffodil in its bloom.

The wood frog quacking in the pond.

On these early spring mornings,

I want to arise with active hope.

I want to exclaim, “Me too!”

And, I want to find moments under

the crisp vibrant-blue sky to wonder

about things that it can seem

so dangerous to wonder about in winter.

Like:

The possibility that we too can awaken

and save the world

that is ourselves simply

by showing up.

© 2014-2017/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Wonderment: New and Selected Poems"
To be published by Talking Waters Press 

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The Flame

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Sometimes you have to pour out the melted wax,

or it will drown the flame.

**

One winter night when I was twelve,

my father started a fire in the fireplace.

Just as the flames began to rise,

a large, hairy wolf spider emerged

from under the bark of one of the logs.

I squealed, afraid for its life and

grabbed for crumbled newspaper and kindling

in the hope of urging it to me.

Instead, it ran through the fire, its two back legs

igniting, dragging, singed and paralyzed.

I screamed, unable to stand the pain.

And, then, mercy took it all at once,

and left me wailing.

**

I’ve lost count of the campfires I’ve known, and

the bonfires too. And, forgotten the names of most

of faces that were there, circled, in the 
captivating flicker of light.

Not so long ago, our kinship would have

been a matter of survival, and the stories that

arose, like smoke, would have been our bloodlines.

**

Salamander

Greek: salamandra

Fire lizard

Spotted salamanders will crawl through the snow to mate

and place opaque egg masses on plant stalks in the shallows

of temporary ponds.

True.

**

We put many things into the flames –

to heat our bodies

to nourish our bodies

to free our souls...

To kill the projections of our fear.

**

The phoenix arises from the ashes.

But, not just any ashes: the ashes of its predecessor.

Manifestation is not possible without destruction.

Destruction is not possible without manifestation.

**

Ask a prairie what it knows of fire

and it will answer you

with flowers and grasses

and gratitude for your question.

Thank you for taking the time to notice

what brings it alive.

**

What do I know of lovers and candlelight?

**

Sitting here with this flame,

on this night,

I know that I can love this world.

**

Pour the wax slowly.

(c) 2014-2017/Jamie K. Reaser

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

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Something Uninvited

Photo: (c) Brenda Clements Jones

“No good ol'coon,” they’d say,

brown-spotted, tongue-lulling

hounds baying

at the base of the tall, grey

poplar, standing stark, innocent

in the pickup’s fierce, white headlights.

It, the tree, has no desire to host this killing,

screaming as a tree screams.

Unable to run.

I imagine them laughing like drunken men do,

gravity

delivering the still-spirited mass with a thud.

I won’t say what happens next.

But, this evening, you are our secret.

And, here I stand in dark chill of night,

glancing up at the first stars,

contemplating what I want to feel.

There are options:

Do I fluster and furiously call you,

“Thief!”?

I could. Yes, I could.

Or, I could

take a deep in-breath and, ah wonderment:

I could set my sites on praise for your cleverness

and skillful hand-paws.

                I could. Yes, I could.

How would you know that the thick, pasty

block of lard and little seeds was bought

– with my hard earned money –

for what makes me happy in the daylight hours?

It wasn’t meant for you.

Darn it.

But,

why not for you?

Yes,

it’s a worthwhile question.

I see the thinness of your winter belly.

The thrill in your eyes.

The hope that I’ll come no closer,

and, oh please, leave an escape route open.

Yes. I see

how you are holding it to your heart.

How you are praying.

Yes, I see how

sometimes we need to change our plans;

Something uninvited can come along,

and, oh look here, a new opportunity

to love.

Breath in.

*

I say:

“How very clever you are, Love.”

“Run.”

© 2014-2016/Jamie K. Reaser

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

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