Her Giveaway Dance

In Spring she was Maiden,
white with grace, proud
with the surprise of new beauty.
She trusted her bud into blossom.
At the edge of the green,
a lacy dream.
One morning the whole tree
quivered in ecstasy.
Blossoms rocked with bees.
I sat beneath and let her petals
snow down upon me all day long.

Now this miracle:
flower to fruit.
How does she know
each perfect moment
to release her hold?
So clean. No questions.
Her twigs unsnap.
When an apple strikes
and rolls from the roof,
her rhythm of deliverance
slaps the edge of a djembe.
When one thuds
to earth: bass
from a drum’s center.

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Such a production
she offers so casually.
Her giveaway dance goes on.
For weeks we gather red bounty
everyday. We eat apples
for breakfast, for desert.
In fever we eat them
to become summer.
Still she dances apples down.
Each gift, a gesture,
a cupped breast.
Again and again until
her mothering is done.

Too unhurried
for humans to perceive,
she empties her harvest
and lifts her lightened limbs.
Winter rest will soon be hers.
Can the creak I hear
be her sigh?
Oh yes, an Elder’s
satisfaction.

©Susa Silvermarie 1995

I offer this poem in thanksgiving for the great bounty of Autumn Equinox!
Love, Susa

Of Bees and Mountains

 

Bees and MtnsIMG_0691 (3)

bee in jewelweed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The steady sound of bumblebees
begins sotto voce,
when the morning rays
reach the tall yellow jewelweed
adjacent to my campsite.
As bees go to work in their earthy business,
the volume swiftly rises
to an ecstatic electric hum.
All day long,
there is no ceasing of their sound.

Here on top of the mountain,
their murmur lies on the silence
like floating music,
like a slow sailboat of buzzing,
though the bee sound seems to come
from a lifegiving furnace
at the center of the earth.
They brook no distraction
from their fervent task of sucking nectar.
How the sound stirs me, how
it nourishes my ear,
how it inspires my diligence.
All day I hear the sisters’
backdrop doowop production.

All day I watch
the sun and the mountains play.
When a ridge is alight,
it waves its particular grace
back to the star that illumines it.
I cannot read a book or look away.
I cannot listen to any other music.
I become a hovering angel
soaking up the goodness
of the bodacious bees,
of the ancient Blue Ridge Mountains
that seem to lie so still
but are alive, and could easily rise,
and stretch themselves like giants.

Silent butterflies flutter by
while I listen, while I watch.
I don’t care what time or day it is.
I am a god smiling
at suspended mountains.
But no, because of this concert,
this moment, this view,
I choose to be an earthling!
To drink the waves of flowing mountains,
I choose a life of senses.
For the sake of a single ridge
with twilight falling into the cove behind it,
I give up godhood gladly.

When at last the light
takes its measured leave,
the buzz of bees likewise
imperceptibly softens,
until the Maestra
brings both to a close,
pianissimo.
And I the blessed listener
am given back
to the lifegiving underpinning
upon which the wild chaos
of natural sounds
has all day rested—
and that rich fabric called silence
sends me and the bees to sleep.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015

diaphanous mtnscampfire view

The Quietly Singing Thing

IMG_4893When aloneness looms
like a giant shadow on the ceiling,
when it windmills its wings
and it screams in both your ears–
connection is still the true thing,
the quietly singing thing.
As air is always there in your lungs,
belonging is always close and true.
When you have dangled singly,
and flailed as if
separation could be credible;
when you have foolishly forgotten
your own dear clan of earthlings,
when, myopic, you have imagined
you are a star without a neighbor in the cosmos,
then above all, you must listen,
and deliberately fix your attention.
For belonging will call you,
though it be by whisper or by sign.
Connection will beckon you softly back
into the big-bodied whole.IMG_4928