In the moonlit glade, a lynx appears, Fur-tipped ears, green-gold eyes quelling fears, A guardian wise, like an androsphinx’s grace, Yet, ponder, do we anthropomorphize his face?
All-knowing aura, mystique in his stare, Yet, does he ponder life with a thoughtful air? Do we project our musings, a human reflection, Onto the lynx, seeking a shared connection?
In the silent forests, mysteries untold, Does the lynx ponder more than hunger bold? Hissing and yowling and screams in the night, A startling assertion of nature’s might.
In winter’s embrace, a lonely man found cheer, A red fox came, a friend so dear.
Exquisite fur, eyes of blue-green grace, Shared scraps, forming a bond in that quiet space.
Yet, in reaching out, a truth unfolds, Wild and untamed, as nature holds.
Teeth bared, a lesson swiftly learned, A cunning companion, loyalty unearned.
I found it difficult to teach my children to be wary of wild animals when so many children’s books, cartoons, and movies – especially Disney movies, portrayed them as cute and cuddly creatures.
In a quiet wood where leaves gently spread, A hedgehog dwelled, his own path he’d tread. Alone he preferred, in solitude’s embrace, Away from his prickle, a solitary grace.
In rustling leaves, he found delight, Playing alone, a lone hedge’s right. Curling in a ball, he’d peacefully sleep, In solitude’s company, his secrets to keep.
One morn, a snowy blanket covered the land, The woods adorned in an arctic strand. Under the sun’s gaze, a serene tableau, Yet, no fellow creatures, no friend or foe.
As he played in the snow, a shadow drew near, Unseen by the hedgehog, it whispered in his ear. In his longing for solace, he returned to his den, Curled up in a ball once more, in dreams to transcend.
Little hedgehog, in the quiet of his rest, Unaware of the shadow, a mysterious guest. Alone, he slumbers, in his dream’s reprieve, In the snowy woods, where secrets weave.
I first learned about hedgehogs from TheTale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, a delightful little children’s book written and illustrated by Beatrix Potter. Although the protagonist hedgehog interacted with other animals in the story, hedgehogs are known to be solitary creatures – save for mating. I know at least one person who is very much a loner, like the hedgehog, and he seems very content. :)
Photographed by Joan Currie – The Botticelli Drawings Exhibit, Head of a Youth, Roman, 2nd century AD, marble
Ode to Cutting Off a Nose by Joan Currie
There was a young man who was vain, His self-absorbed nature was plain. Despite all the money he’d spend, No one thought of him as a friend.
He was vengeful, spiteful, and mean, People say he was rarely seen. His mother was wary of him, His future – decidedly grim.
One day when he looked in the mirror, He pronounced that he looked rather queer. So he cut off his aquiline nose, And fed all the parts to the crows.
As I was examining the marble Head of a Youth at the Botticelli Drawings exhibit at the Legion of Honor in San Francisco, I thought of the expression, “cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face,” as well as Vincent van Gogh cutting off his ear, and the ominous “Wheat Field with Crows,” one of van Gogh’s last paintings executed in 1890 before his death. The above poem was born out of that Joycean stream-of-consciousness.
I wonder what other people think when they look at great works of art? Who knows, but it could be very interesting!
In the peaks where snow doth lie, A creature graced with silent stride, Snow leopard roams beneath the sky, In the realm where frost abides.
With fur of silver, spots of night, Its gaze, ice blue, a mystic sight, Amongst snow-capped mountains high, A guardian beneath the moonlight.
Once a child of that mountain air, A woman now, distant and fair, From the village, she did part, Leaving behind a heavy heart.
In dreams, she hears the snow’s soft call, A longing echoes through the hall, Her spirit yearns for frozen grace, To wander in that wild embrace.
The snow leopard, a silent guide, Through peaks where memories abide, Its eyes like crystals, piercing cold, A tale of nature’s beauty told.
The woman, haunted by the past, Desires the mountains, free at last, To return to where her soul belongs, Amidst the snow, where it prolongs.
Through valleys deep and rivers wide, Her heart retraces steps beside, Towards the peaks, she yearns to climb, Reconnect with frozen time.
Oh, snow leopard with eyes so bright, Guide her through the frigid night, To find her way, to nature’s lore, To the mountains she adored once more.
The northern landscapes that shaped my early years now seem like distant dreams. I wish for a winter’s day, especially in the late afternoon as the sun is setting, when the snow is infused with soft shades of white, blue, lavender, and rose.
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day. From Fall, Leaves, Fall by Emily Brontë
I reveled in the beauty of fall on my walk – but, there was a bittersweet undertone to the experience. The leaves that carpeted my path were a sign that the world around me was preparing for a long slumber. The once-bustling woods would soon be hushed by the frigid grip of winter. The trees, now so alive with color, will soon stand bare and vulnerable.
The toughest wood with brightest blaze will greet: The hardest nut contains the sweetest meat; So wisdom, gained by light of midnight oil, Gives richest recompense to patient toil. From Industry By Charles Eugene Banks
I came across a half-finished needlepoint canvas while looking through my tapestry wool stash. I began it over a decade ago and decided at the time that I just didn’t have it in me to finish it – much like when I started reading the 1,072-page classic, Don Quixote, and decided enough was enough and put it back on the shelf.
After examining the needlepoint canvas further and determining that I had just enough wool to complete it, I resolved to push through and finish it. It took me just over a month of incessant work. It is, hands down, my favorite needlepoint piece to date. I sewed it into a pillow using silk fabric backing and velvet piping from Chennai and wool stuffing from a sheep farm in Pennsylvania. I love it and it was well worth the effort!
When a bird, takes flight Wings, sail on air Silhouettes of time Upon clouds, inspire No height, inconceivable Nor dream, unreachable Fear, no longer, an obstacle Hunger, no more, high I soar Tears retreat, from, the earths floor The sky, stretches out, its arms and opens its door from A Bird Takes Flight by Bernard E. Harris
After months of contemplation, I awoke this morning and knew it was time to move. Although I haven’t settled on the exact location for my new home, I am ready to take flight!
The starling is my darling, although I don’t much approve of its Habits. Proletarian bird, Nesting in holes and corners, making a mess, And sometimes dropping its eggs Just any old where – on the front lawn, for instance.
It thinks it can sing too. In springtime They are on every rooftop, or high bough, Or telegraph pole, blithering away Discords, with cliches picked up From the other melodists…
From The Starling by John Heath-Stubbs
Despite the snap of cold weather, the starlings were out in full force today perched on the branches of crabapple trees – mostly hidden by the burgeoning pink blossoms. It seemed as if they were rehearsing a mixture of musical numbers and squeaky songs for a springtime premiere. They put a smile on my face!
Clouded with snow The cold winds blow, And shrill on leafless bough The robin with its burning breast Alone sings now.
The rayless sun, Day’s journey done, Sheds its last ebbing light On fields in leagues of beauty spread Unearthly white.
Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon Over that sea of frozen foam Floats the white moon.
I have been noticing robins on the branches of fruit trees on my walks through the neighborhood. Although the robin is usually thought of as a harbinger of spring, the December robin makes a delightful Christmas herald!
Satin & Sand 