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Odin odin@aflx.com

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Books
· Perceptions

· ECHOSIS

· Prosetry at Work

· Said and Unsaid - Vol 1

· 3 WAY MIRROR


Short Stories
· Patience Waning

· Ladle Lines (A prosetry memory)

· A Gentle Man

· Pacing Love's Journey

· Gratitude

· A Sticky Conversation

· Blazing Now and Then

· Vulnerable Captivity

· The Kite That Would Not Bow

· Time


Articles
· War and Peace

· Desperation Breeds Desperation

· Preference Manifest

· Innocent Guilt

· Barbed Isolation

· A Place...

· Sanity's Loss

· Organs Anonymous

· Fatuous Beyond Absurdity

· Truth is One


Poetry
· The Life-long Pernicious Evil

· Cherishing Sounds of Silence

· Understanding the Unexplainable

· Reality of Another Kind

· Finding Trust Again

· Aromalicious Memories

· A Jungle-rain Pastorale

· Sediment Within the Soul

· Life's Enormous Green Chest

· Roadkill Memoriam

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Perceving Warmth in Winter's Cold

by Odin odin@aflx.com — Read all 3,869 poems by Odin odin@aflx.com

Whether it's redistribution of wealth, movements in the parks, or a much-needed redistribution of sanity, as we try so hard to acquire some kind of uniqueness, separation from what Plato might call “sameness,” we sometimes forget how connected we are to the many-layered canvas of nature’s curated art. "A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession" – Albert Camus.

Monday, February 19, 2024


Poem Artwork

Perceiving Warmth in Winter’s Cold

What value we ignore,
these short days,
air filled with crystalline arrest
bestowing remembrance of colors in respite,
while we engage anew
our will to embrace
the resistance
the invitation to accept.

Winter ushers us to perfect seats
where bows of pine and oak wood
curl their needle and leaf
into protection and sleep,
wisdom we know little of,
nature's ancestral intransience of life.

This stage of emptiness soon fills
like protective strands of thread interlaced,
woven crystals cloak bare branches,
while crusts of ice bear final witness,
cover for now,
irrigation come spring.

How wise
this four-act saga of nature,
void of discrimination,
knowing how little life requires
of comfort we so covetously horde,
even as rarefied light,
that which never hides in the shadows,
always provides,
if only we would pause,
allow.

Fortunately…

An audience of seeds will survive
amidst a huddled awareness
providing innate connection
to all that is
from all that was,
those knowing well
that which patience rewards.

Survival of the fittest
understands beyond the science,
beyond a season,
carefully gathering the warmth to offer later,
one body to another,
revealing the exponential wonder
to other unique crystals in flight.

Nature's singularity
so very near for some,
a winter's cold away for others

 



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Reviewed by Ronald Hull
Reviewed on February 19, 2024
While I hate winter, not for its beauty, but for its penetrating cold that my injured body find hard to control. As much as I'd like, I could no longer get out interact and enjoy the season, like you describe in your poem. There is nothing like the temperate zones, with their four seasons to provide the kind of variety of environment that are so rewarding to experience. Each season has its survival mode, so beautifully orchestrated like your poem suggested.

In your final stanza you are right in describing those who love the heat of burning all of our fossil fuels to keep warm while destroying what we look to as being winter in the future.

Ron

Reviewed by Richard Cederberg
Reviewed on February 19, 2024
What a grand blessing nature is. It always wears the colors of the spirit. If one purposes to live in agreement with nature, (adapting to her and not making her adapt to you) a whole new world opens up. One filled with wisdom and mysteries. We live in the foothills of the Cuyamaca Mountains, so living in and with her, and all her wonderful critters, (and of late her moodiness) has become a lifestyle for us. Enjoyed this, Odinsan. Like a breath of fresh air. Peace.

Reviewed by John Herlihy
Reviewed on February 19, 2024
Love the Camus quote that I never knew of and so true. We make confessions or a sort all the time, but nothing like the confession that a poem reveals. Well done your insightful rendition of nature.


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