1993
Smoky vapor off the lake.
Remnants of coals stirred
in the stove in the outdoor fireplace
rekindle in deep ash.
The sun is arriving again.
Leaden pewter clouds lay scattered
across the golden luminescent east.
Above, patches of blue
promise a fair day.
The dog Jessie sighs in her sleep
while far-off geese cry at breakfast.
The handle of the cup is cold
but the coffee is warm.
Earlier, rising to light the wood stove
I heard the crackle of flame begin
with crumpled newspapers and kindling.
Then I cuddled back into the drowse
of my warm sleeping bag.
Now, small birds dart in the spruce trees
in front of this primitive porch.
They do not stop long enough
for me to identify them.
The deep pleasure in writing
what I sense overtakes me
here in the morning at the table.
Wild phlox, goldenrod, nod in dawn air
catching the magical red-orange light.
Blowing east, the mist begins to dissipate.
The perfect reflections of clouds
and birch shore laden
with fern, moss, and brush
paint the still still lake surface.
The cabins on the other side slumber,
though one burned a bright beam
in three directions last night
while I swam after sauna in moonlight.
Pure elements --
earth, air, fire, water coalesce.
My mind drifts as is its habit
to my grown children
gone to their lives but not
from encompassing protection
of loving thought,
and the questions.
Now I have finished this textbook
how will I fill time?
Now I’m 50
what meaning will life take?
where will the path go next?
in this exquisite natural tranquility
one discovers in middle age
is wisdom nascent?
I wish I knew that bird’s name--
Hopper, Flutterer, Splasher-In-The-Water.
Such solitude is necessary.
This peace is joy.
© Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved.