Because, I suppose, God would still have us call him good,
he has shone the light of his countenance upon us
(here in West Michigan, at least)
and blessed us with sunshine
these first February days.

In January the sun calmed, warmed, filled with hope.
But this sun is something different.
It energizes and aggravates.
It is a tease
a sign of things to come
but not yet here.
This sun laughs.

It is the light at the end of the tunnel
the end of things
and the beginning
which we glimpse
now and again
but cannot attain
stymied
stuck in this viral winter.

This sun
teasing and laughing
pulls me out of doors
in desperation
to the woods
to the lake
to walk
march
plod
for I must move towards something
anything
anything but the sitting
and waiting
all the nothing I’ve been doing.

In the woods I want to run.
I want to holler and yell.
I want to dance like a mad woman
release this energy
this need to move, to do.

I am full of the wanting of doing.
I want to drive east
and plaster my passport
against the plexiglass of the booth at the border
and tell whoever I must that I will go home
visas and restrictions be damned.

I want to ring the bells of the steeple
and call the people to worship,
and tell them to sit at the table
and dance in the aisles
and hug
and cry
and laugh
and sing.

I want to take the Christmas boughs
and start a blaze in the backyard
and throw a party for my friends
at which we dance around the fire
howling at the moon for
joy of being together
and we burn in the fire
every one of our masks.

I want to never again ask
what if
how might
should we
can I
and rip apart each layer of thought
we must travel through in the act of doing
anything.

I am full of the wanting of doing.
But the things I want to do I do not do.
And the things I do not want to do
(which are, of themselves, an absence)
these I keep on doing.

I do not holler and yell.
I do not dance like a madwoman.
I walk
march
plod
feet finding the best path
where the snow is packed down
by the hundreds who have
walked
marched
plodded
for their own want of doing.

~

There are, in the woods,
the smallest of beech trees.
Their branches are wide and low,
and upon these branches cling
leaves – dead and brown.
I say cling, but I am convinced
it is the tree holding onto them,
not the other way around-
holding them until it is time
for something new.

And if you stumble upon these trees
while walking
marching
plodding
at just the right time,
you will see the sun
fall upon them and make them
glisten.

A woman asked me once
what God’s grace was like.
I would tell her now,
it is the tree that holds its leaves in winter,
and the light that shimmers
those leaves as copper.