in these times
of rapid change
and covid-19,
with the youngest
doing zoom for school,
the lack of daily commute
has yielded quiet mornings
waking late to winter light
softing the forest into focus.
this morning came cresting the hill
hot pink between black branches –
we went to find the sun,
my daughter and i
walking the silence of the ridge road
our home nestles below,
looking out over the north valley
already spilled with the light of day
hurtling towards us
there is no measuring
the infinity of this cusp moment
on the ridge between,
no knowing how long this light has lived
or how much time there is to come,
there never was.
tomorrow has become a matter of faith
we plant the garden
banking on the weeks it takes a radish
from seed to globe pulled bright purple
and white from dark loam,
the season it takes from sprout
to a bounty of peas
in a bowl on the lap for shelling,
trusting the tamarillo planted today
will have time to fulfil its promise
of fruit in the second year,
believing in the sapling
thigh deep hole
backfilled with compost and topsoil –
root ball undisturbed
soft pressed and settled
watered bucket by bucket
until the rain came
all the while saying its name
podocarpus falcatus
over and over
like a mantra, like a prayer
like a hymn to the making –
accepting as truth the limbs that will grow
the birds that will feast and nest,
the dropping leaves through centuries
building soil
building forests
from the undergrowth
tomorrow is a matter of faith
and what can we plant
but our vision of what could be
and our longing to live
to see the sun rise
on a world turned around
at death’s door.
In response to the Earthweal weekly challenge: What comes next
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