Katie Hereld
The Willow no Longer Weeps
(A Bow to Hope and the Creation of a Covid Vaccine)
My feet are cold:
Toes scratch through frozen earth
In search of running water
That is not there.
Sap that smells of winter
Crawls chill,
Sluggish through my
Many, many long veins.
And tiny leaves,
long ago yellowed and fallen,
Sit atop my bony roots,
A now-brown
Blanket of
Shorn
Hair.
Once I was lithe, flexible,
Able to dance with zephyrs.
When I felt The forceful pull of wind
Against my trunk,
I stood strong or
Bowed to it,
Always to rise again.
Fearless.
Firm.
Rooted.
I glowed in the dark
with yellow-greenness,
Yet blended
Into the woods.
I fed birds, even
Housed them.
Now,
Alone,
I shiver.
I have witnessed
Halves of towering pines snap
from the weight of snow,
I have seen sap bleed from torn bark,
Congeal, and scar over.
I have seen great oaks fall,
Hollowed from the inside by
Disease,
Blight,
Age.
But then this morning…
Light shone ever so slightly earlier,
Stayed ever so slightly longer,
Felt ever
So Slightly
Warmer.
Did I imagine it --
Or did I feel the sun
Tug gently on my hands,
Inviting hidden buds to flower?
Did I imagine it --
Or did I hear the air whisper
A call for me to create
New seeds,
New leaves,
New life?
2/21/21
(A Bow to Hope and the Creation of a Covid Vaccine)
My feet are cold:
Toes scratch through frozen earth
In search of running water
That is not there.
Sap that smells of winter
Crawls chill,
Sluggish through my
Many, many long veins.
And tiny leaves,
long ago yellowed and fallen,
Sit atop my bony roots,
A now-brown
Blanket of
Shorn
Hair.
Once I was lithe, flexible,
Able to dance with zephyrs.
When I felt The forceful pull of wind
Against my trunk,
I stood strong or
Bowed to it,
Always to rise again.
Fearless.
Firm.
Rooted.
I glowed in the dark
with yellow-greenness,
Yet blended
Into the woods.
I fed birds, even
Housed them.
Now,
Alone,
I shiver.
I have witnessed
Halves of towering pines snap
from the weight of snow,
I have seen sap bleed from torn bark,
Congeal, and scar over.
I have seen great oaks fall,
Hollowed from the inside by
Disease,
Blight,
Age.
But then this morning…
Light shone ever so slightly earlier,
Stayed ever so slightly longer,
Felt ever
So Slightly
Warmer.
Did I imagine it --
Or did I feel the sun
Tug gently on my hands,
Inviting hidden buds to flower?
Did I imagine it --
Or did I hear the air whisper
A call for me to create
New seeds,
New leaves,
New life?
2/21/21
Read Katie Hereld's thoughts from earlier in the pandemic here.
Dixie Brown
Perhaps you, too, have been spending much time during the pandemic in your own backyard. I’m out there every morning, often before 6 a.m., grateful that my Western Massachusetts yard is a place where, instead of socializing, I can spend joyful hours with dirt, rocks and things that grow.
This morning a black bear stood gazing at me as I came outside. He didn’t seem surprised. Slowly, he turned and headed into the woods that abut my neighborhood. What’s interesting about bears, and I’ve seen two in the last week, is that they are noiseless as they move across the landscape. Deer clatter and crash, breaking twigs with their hooves in their nervousness. Bears don’t make a sound but what a presence! There was something leisurely and majestic about the way this one headed off.
I waited until he was truly gone, then I shoved aside the gate into my circular garden and checked it out. Except for the Kentucky Wonder pole beans, most of which have been sheared off by some rude rodent, the garden has been bountiful this summer. Maybe the woodchuck who lived under my shed for years has moved. He used to climb the fence and eat absolutely everything in five minutes flat, hoovering his way through the vegetables. But this year I have so much produce I don’t need to buy much of anything. I picked some broccoli and planted the tarragon I bought Sunday.
Then I put on my poison ivy patrol gloves and headed for the “way back.” The long-range plan is to have a tiny arboretum back there, with stone paths meandering through. So far, I’ve put in five especially appealing little trees, but I’m taking it slow, giving myself time to contemplate what I’d like.
One thing I’d like is to make it a safe play area for Emma, my granddaughter who is about to be 14 months old out in Minneapolis. I am sad about not seeing her during COVID so I’ve been channeling my frustration into removing, by hand, all the poison ivy whose roots weave a complex tapestry under the wood chips made from trees I removed some years back. I don’t want to use glyphosate so instead, with a patience new to me in this time of solitude, I crawl around every day pulling out all the new leaves and rootlets which appear daily, in profusion. It’s a Sisyphean task, but strangely satisfying.
I think what’s going on here is control. I can’t control the coronavirus but I can beat back poison ivy, rosa multiflora, bittersweet and anything with prickles that might scratch small Emma. When she comes east, I want her to be delighted. Daffodils wait underground for spring rains. Come summer, daylilies will open their orange and yellow blossoms. I’m encouraging wild ferns and Jack-in-the-Pulpits to spread.
This kind of work requires me to be on my knees. The whole world has been brought to its knees by the virus. We can’t root it out. It will run its course. But I can rid my yard of the things that could hurt Emma and tuck surprises into the earth. There I am every morning, kneeling on the wood chips, dutifully engaged in the slow drudgery of making something far in the dimly imagined future, beautiful.
This morning a black bear stood gazing at me as I came outside. He didn’t seem surprised. Slowly, he turned and headed into the woods that abut my neighborhood. What’s interesting about bears, and I’ve seen two in the last week, is that they are noiseless as they move across the landscape. Deer clatter and crash, breaking twigs with their hooves in their nervousness. Bears don’t make a sound but what a presence! There was something leisurely and majestic about the way this one headed off.
I waited until he was truly gone, then I shoved aside the gate into my circular garden and checked it out. Except for the Kentucky Wonder pole beans, most of which have been sheared off by some rude rodent, the garden has been bountiful this summer. Maybe the woodchuck who lived under my shed for years has moved. He used to climb the fence and eat absolutely everything in five minutes flat, hoovering his way through the vegetables. But this year I have so much produce I don’t need to buy much of anything. I picked some broccoli and planted the tarragon I bought Sunday.
Then I put on my poison ivy patrol gloves and headed for the “way back.” The long-range plan is to have a tiny arboretum back there, with stone paths meandering through. So far, I’ve put in five especially appealing little trees, but I’m taking it slow, giving myself time to contemplate what I’d like.
One thing I’d like is to make it a safe play area for Emma, my granddaughter who is about to be 14 months old out in Minneapolis. I am sad about not seeing her during COVID so I’ve been channeling my frustration into removing, by hand, all the poison ivy whose roots weave a complex tapestry under the wood chips made from trees I removed some years back. I don’t want to use glyphosate so instead, with a patience new to me in this time of solitude, I crawl around every day pulling out all the new leaves and rootlets which appear daily, in profusion. It’s a Sisyphean task, but strangely satisfying.
I think what’s going on here is control. I can’t control the coronavirus but I can beat back poison ivy, rosa multiflora, bittersweet and anything with prickles that might scratch small Emma. When she comes east, I want her to be delighted. Daffodils wait underground for spring rains. Come summer, daylilies will open their orange and yellow blossoms. I’m encouraging wild ferns and Jack-in-the-Pulpits to spread.
This kind of work requires me to be on my knees. The whole world has been brought to its knees by the virus. We can’t root it out. It will run its course. But I can rid my yard of the things that could hurt Emma and tuck surprises into the earth. There I am every morning, kneeling on the wood chips, dutifully engaged in the slow drudgery of making something far in the dimly imagined future, beautiful.
Anonymous
March, 2020
Yesterday I discovered that a local florist has tons of beautiful flowers that were ordered for commencements and events that have been cancelled. So as a gift to my own mental health, I ordered two buckets full of assorted blooms. In the late afternoon, my son helped me carry them up and down our street, ringing each doorbell. Almost every neighbor was home, and answered the door with an unsurprising level of hesitation/skepticism/apprehension. When they saw me waving happily and my son with the flowers, that turned to surprise, curiosity and delight. I explained that we'd bought flowers for everyone, and wanted to check in on how they were doing. We had a few minutes of 10 feet apart conversation while they selected a bunch of their favorites. One person (who knows my social service work has continued) remarked "Wow, you're really working the crisis aren't you?!" but then, as we both pondered whether that was accurate, she found a much more apt description for it -- "No, you're doing something that you want to do because it's NOT dictated by the crisis!" The whole experience felt so good. I think my son was perplexed by the activity at first, wondering if people would open their doors, whether they should, and whether this was just a mistake. By the end he'd seen so many people's reactions -- to the flowers and to the thought and the check-in – I think it changed his perspective. I told him I was glad we'd done it because it was a pure moment of me feeling like ME, which is an elusive blessing in a time like this. Later in the afternoon we noticed that several neighbors had displayed their vases of flowers in their windows. We also gave a big bunch to some special friends of ours across town, who then divided their bouquet into smaller bunches to deliver to their neighbors. It was a wonderful day.
Yesterday I discovered that a local florist has tons of beautiful flowers that were ordered for commencements and events that have been cancelled. So as a gift to my own mental health, I ordered two buckets full of assorted blooms. In the late afternoon, my son helped me carry them up and down our street, ringing each doorbell. Almost every neighbor was home, and answered the door with an unsurprising level of hesitation/skepticism/apprehension. When they saw me waving happily and my son with the flowers, that turned to surprise, curiosity and delight. I explained that we'd bought flowers for everyone, and wanted to check in on how they were doing. We had a few minutes of 10 feet apart conversation while they selected a bunch of their favorites. One person (who knows my social service work has continued) remarked "Wow, you're really working the crisis aren't you?!" but then, as we both pondered whether that was accurate, she found a much more apt description for it -- "No, you're doing something that you want to do because it's NOT dictated by the crisis!" The whole experience felt so good. I think my son was perplexed by the activity at first, wondering if people would open their doors, whether they should, and whether this was just a mistake. By the end he'd seen so many people's reactions -- to the flowers and to the thought and the check-in – I think it changed his perspective. I told him I was glad we'd done it because it was a pure moment of me feeling like ME, which is an elusive blessing in a time like this. Later in the afternoon we noticed that several neighbors had displayed their vases of flowers in their windows. We also gave a big bunch to some special friends of ours across town, who then divided their bouquet into smaller bunches to deliver to their neighbors. It was a wonderful day.
Anonymous
The Ballad of COVID 19
Kevin Hodgson
"Beneath the Ruins (lives the sun)"...a song I wrote, recorded at home and shared with my students and school community to find hope in the dark times.
Stacey
This is something I wrote at 2am on April 2nd 2020. I couldn’t sleep because for the past couple weeks the only thing I’ve been awake to think about it Covid-19 and how much it has changed the world.
Stacey
Let this not be a time that we lose sight of hope. Let this be a time where we manifest more hope than one person can hold within themselves. Let this be a time we support each other and extend our hope to the friend, neighbor, family member, coworker, stranger that may have lost some of theirs. If we refuel hope in one another this will not bring us to our knees but will remind us who we are. We are one. We are all feeling like we are living a surreal life. Normal isn’t normal. Everyone is feeling the unsureness. But what we have that will get us to the other side of this, is hope. Hope that there will be an end. Hope that there will be a tomorrow better than the day before. Hope that you don’t lose someone close to you. Hope that your family stays healthy. There is always hope and just when you think you don’t have anymore someone will give you some if theirs. It might come in the form of a gift, a hug a smile. It might be seeing a flower coming up. It might come from hearing someone’s laugh or watching something funny on tv or hearing a song. But it will come. No one is without it. Although sometimes it’s hard to feel, see or hold on to...but it is always there. Let this be a time in our lives that no matter who you are or where you are in the world that you give a little hope, see a little hope and feel a little hope. For hope is not exclusive, hope is what we need.
Throughout this page and others, we will be posting haiku submitted to the Montview Neighborhood Listserv
|
we are scared
lonely cranky sorry happy to be home with you -Lynn Yanis |
|
We sit together distantly
Neighbors around fire Suddenly friends -Lynn Yanis |
Hope Can you hear it?
Daffodil choirs in sunshine
Buds swelling on trees
-Anitta Sawyer
Daffodil choirs in sunshine
Buds swelling on trees
-Anitta Sawyer
|
Inside brews worry
Outside springs crocus flower Color approaches -Nora Brown |
|
Celandine and chives
don't care about new virus. Robins sing, "It's Spring!". -Dan Bensonoff |
Teagan
...my 15 year old daughter wrote the poem below as an assignment for her English class at Hopkins Academy. The writing prompt was "Write about something(one) that inspires you." I was so incredibly proud of her and wondered if you may want to share her positivity with your audience. These are the words we all need to hear right now...
Submitted with Great Pride,
Stephanie Barry
Family, Friends and First Responders
By: Teagan
Family are there for each other
Friends support each other
First responders care for everyone
Everyone takes care of everyone
Viruses don’t pull us apart
They bring us together
We all take on new challenges together
And create solutions as a result
We all support one another
Everyone goes in together
Everyone gets out together
Teamwork is key
We’re all in this together
Together we’ll take it on
Together we are united
Don Ogden
In place with others
floating along in company with the
smallest of beings (125 nanometers!)
among the most abundant biological
entities on planet Earth and they
do not like us enablers at all,
our War on Nature makes it sick
many of us die and we guess
the viruses die with us as well, or not
those of us who survive may recall
grandparents who sheltered in place
in a similar space infecting others
sisters and brothers, lovers not
intentionally wishing anything more
than recovery and the way forward
hopefully in peace, we are not alone.
floating along in company with the
smallest of beings (125 nanometers!)
among the most abundant biological
entities on planet Earth and they
do not like us enablers at all,
our War on Nature makes it sick
many of us die and we guess
the viruses die with us as well, or not
those of us who survive may recall
grandparents who sheltered in place
in a similar space infecting others
sisters and brothers, lovers not
intentionally wishing anything more
than recovery and the way forward
hopefully in peace, we are not alone.
|
snipping of scissors
machines humming, thread spools spin, mask-makers at work -Mac Everett |
|
faces half hidden
but friendly hellos abound and the eyes smile -Lola Reid |
Amelia, Age 11
The Willow
Hanging over the white rushing water
A willow, strong and true
With flowers blooming everywhere
Shining as bright as the sun on water
When the strong wind blows
Stirring the tall grasses
The willow weeps and sobs
Its green leaves fluttering away in its sadness
The flowers stop shining
For there is no sun on water
And the singing birds stop humming
While the heavy rain pours down
But then the sun peeks out
And the willow ceases sobbing
And the sun is shining on water again
Awakening the willow with new strength
When the moon and stars arise
And the sun says goodbye
The willow knows then
That it survived another day
Hanging over the white rushing water
A willow, strong and true
With flowers blooming everywhere
Shining as bright as the sun on water
When the strong wind blows
Stirring the tall grasses
The willow weeps and sobs
Its green leaves fluttering away in its sadness
The flowers stop shining
For there is no sun on water
And the singing birds stop humming
While the heavy rain pours down
But then the sun peeks out
And the willow ceases sobbing
And the sun is shining on water again
Awakening the willow with new strength
When the moon and stars arise
And the sun says goodbye
The willow knows then
That it survived another day