In this spring season it is rare to see upon the budding ground snow, what winter forgot to give and just now thought to bring. Bended branches, unbroken, slowly lose the weight of snow. They rise, shake themselves off, wonder about all the fuss. Broken branches litter the yard, lie in the street, crumble in the drive. They have done their giving part - birthed sweet leaves of green. In any season we may be broken by the coming of unexpected snow. Yet we have given birth to sweetness that in all seasons never dies. ____________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - April 11, 2022 Written following the first recorded snowfall in April, in Portland. It also seems fitting for this Holy Week when some consider the meaning of death and resurrection.
Author: Korin Thomas
Springness
The cool night air of spring has forgotten what winter wrought when its breath blew over the land. Here, young leaves curl into the day as each morning when light comes from over the shoulder of the east some warmth I do not feel is kindled. The damp earth knows what I do not within root tendril and mineral maze where go all the wormy wanderers coiled creatures, slow slithering beings who, no less than I, live within the shelter of our one home. This I vow not to forget, ever. What is not holy on the land in the dark caverns below or flying in winds above? Nothing at all can I imagine! So let spring warm our northern lives while leaves fall on southern climes. Oh! The rapturous whirl of being! _________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - March 30, 2022
Late Winter Words
My words, like late winter leaf buds, whiten at the tips, wanting warmth. On frosty mornings, finding none, they wait still under cloud and sun. I have moments when I think I know how words work in slow unfolding or how whitening buds become green leaves. Yet, little do I know of their deep mysteries. There is a secret life of words and leaves awakening out of hidden and hallowed places - earth's cold dark and soggy beds, the soggier beds of my own sacred being. _________________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - March 16, 2022
Ashes of Ukraine
Ashes fall over the land tracing on everyone crescents, crosses, and stars. In every family a pieta mothers holding their children in shelters, trains leaving. I touch my finger to the bowl smear myself with ashes from a land faraway. _________________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - March 2, 2022 On this Ash Wednesday of the Christian tradition, this is for the peoples of Ukraine in their horror forced on them by a madman.
The Unknown
What waits for us at the river bridge the edge of town, where begins again our usually safe but still unknown life? Chill water moves silent and slow below. Shall we cross over into the darkness where there is no path, no sign, no one? Looking back, we see the world we knew fading as if folded into a dream we once had. We wonder whether there is a way beyond the silver hills where pretty wildflowers grow and sweet green grasses of Spring flow? How are we to know until we go? _________________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - February 14, 2022
Sacred Vessels
Within them, vessels of sacred oils broke, spilled, spread deep and down. Opening their eyes, they saw the world born in living flesh, felt the urgent pull of the untamed Spirit. In that moment they dropped - everything. What I might have seen, bursts of light, or felt, urgent tugs on my sleeve, have left me with fitful thoughts of life I might have missed along the way, lost, when once I had found broken bits of it. I turned them round and round in my hands, thought them lovely and then they were gone. __________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - January 31, 2022 Writing this, I had three of the Sacred Vessels in mind. They are the Buddha, Jesus, and Dorothy Day of New York.
Flowers in the Sky
I would so hold on to this day sunshine bright in the cool of winter. The air alive, the green of evergreens sparkling new as if in spring. Did I imagine them, conjure them out of nothing, the brilliant born moments walking the winding garden paths touching the bare budded branches? Perhaps I spoke and bequeathed stars formed with my hands mountains and streams; with my breath breathed air itself into being and with my beating heart created worlds. _________________________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - January 20, 2022 "Whatever thoughts or things we are now grasping and clinging to as ‘real’ are not supported by our practice of letting go, and yet they are our dreams and illusions, our ‘flowers in the sky." (Dogen: Shobogenzo: On the Everyday Behavior of a Buddha Doing His Practice)
Songs of Winter
Now into the cold rain-laced wind letting fall on my ragged coat what comes - rain, snow, needles of pine, rare sun splash. Barely do I feel these gifts swathed am I in layers of wool and down. In the still shadowy silver days a gloaming presence unfurls, held in the thin veil of drizzle and chill fog - ghostly luminous, humming wind songs. I think to myself, "The Spirit?" An electric and vinyl turn playing tunes and lyrics from other worlds on my own worn and plastic hide? I, inside of my usual and ordinary life, hear, within the swirls of the winter-swept leaf-laden lonely and lovely air songs I do not know but wish to learn. _________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - January 11, 2022
What Will I Miss, if…?
On the land and for a time has come a dusting of snow and freezing cold. Winter sun scratches at the horizon in low light - late to come, early to leave. I plod about the house and yard to find the things that must be done - daily chores and mundane tasks, this to fix and that for later leave. The end of the year, beginning of waiting for daffodils and first leaves. But what I will miss if only for these I wait while all around burgeoning life seethes? Inside even my old self as upon the muddy ground does come some new stirring that, if I sleep too long, will likely be gone before spring awakes. ______________________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - December 27, 2021
Solstice Day
In just a while I have to go Into the rain and cheerless cold And leave this warmth that comforts me Before the coming of the snow. For just another moment more, Until I do another chore, I'll watch the rain as it comes down, I'll wait beside the open door. No one can say what's there for me Beyond the hills, beyond the sea. So close to home I'll stay today Where I may love and I may Be. And on this dreary solstice day Into the world so dark, so gray I'll go, but just one minute more Before I'm off and on my way! ________________________________________________ Portland, Oregon - December 21, 2021. This poem is my attempt to mimic Robert Frost's perfect, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." No one can match the brilliance of his work, but it was fun to try given the parameters he set for his piece. It's a challenge because I'm not used to sticking to a strict style in terms of rhyming patterns and syllabic rhythms.
In Cascadia 