Ice upon old
Goldenrod
Stops me at the edge
Of the field, how
Gleaming,
This morning,
The stiff stalks
Stand,
Slender, exhausted
The gray boss-
All that is left of their
Golden hair-
Holding
A crown of snow, and the rest-
Stem and leaves
Just waiting
In their glass suits
To fall-
Or, if enduring,
To see
The great melt, and the fields
Tinged green-
And the lambs,
Coming again from the
Cozy barn,
With their crazy prancing-
How the cold makes us dream!
In the abundance of summer, with the goldenrod splurging out color and sweet smells, do we not dream, but act? Is there something about the cold, the rest, the dark, the death that gives us the spaciousness for dreaming life into being? I don’t know about you, but here in Florida with week upon week of long days and 90 plus heat and humidity, it feels good to be a stiff, brown plant covered in ice and snow in a field blessed with quiet snow.
I have lived in the north that stiffens the joints in winter, but also breeds enthusiasm, if you just let go and venture out. When we moved to Minesota, we were advised “the winters aren’t so bad if you just get out in it.” So we did. We would bundle up in 6 plus layers and take walks through down town Rochester where the Canadian geese overwintered because the coal plant kept the water open. We would walk among the geese who hunkered down against the biting winds and cold, and occasionally would come upon one who didn’t even show the movement of breathing under his or her snow covered back. They had died of some threat in the short days. I remember picking up one of these frozen birds, stiff with her neck curled over her back and her beak into her feathers. All I felt was love – for her and her kind, which burst out in the spring when the survivors hatched out yellow fuzz ball goslings. Who could dream of greater perfection – cold, death, and life?
What gives birth to your dreams?
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