Guest Poet: Robert Frost

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

~~Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of the easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Bonus Post: A Candle in the Darkness

Winter and December/January in particular are difficult for many, many people. The gravitas of the holidays combine with shorter days, longer nights, in the Northern hemisphere colder temperatures. Winter is a time of reflection, of endings, of assessment. We weigh our lives and it is easy to find ourselves wanting. 

We are not perfect. Should we be surprised? Did we truly expect to obtain perfection in this lifetime? Is that a reasonable expectation? 

To all of us who struggle, who feel consumed with darkness, who suffer from the weight of our own internal critic, I wrote this as a gentle reminder to you. All it takes is the barest glimmer of Light, and darkness is overcome. It's as simple, and profound, as that.

Keep your chin up, don't give up the ship. Have hope. I love you.~~Ginger

Hobo Christmas Morn

The following is one of my personal favorites. Written Christmas Day 2006 and never edited (ducks various thrown objects), here it is for your raw reading pleasure on this St. Stephen's Day. Remember Good King Winceslaus looking out on the Feast of Stephen?~~GH

I wake on Christmas morning to the children's excited "Good morning, Momma." Dog-breath kisses are exchanged between us along with regards of the day and I stumble to the kitchen to check on my roast. This year I decided to slow-roast it at a low temperature for three times as long. Not good for fuel efficiency but perfect for human efficiency. 

It occurs to me we should feed the birds. I read someplace you'll have good luck all year long if you feed the birds on Christmas morn. 

"You can't feed the birds," my husband chides. "It's pouring rain down; there are no birds today."

"Still, we should try…" 

My youngest pipes in. "We didn't feed the birds, but we gave a hobo a sandwich." It's too early for my brain to process this strange statement. Hobo? Where did she learn the word hobo? And how did she come to give a "hobo" a sandwich?

Our son James is here to spend Christmas with us, fresh from the arms of his live-in girl friend and the walls of his new apartment. "He was standing outside and asked if he could have a sandwich," James explains. 

"I made him a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich… and I gave him a cookie," my daughter adds hesitantly, as if I might be angry at her generosity.

"That was sweet, Kelly. I like your heart." The smile on her face tells me she's glad I approve of her decision.

It's a dreary day, a Monday and Christmas too. The soup kitchen across the street doesn't operate today. I expected a line of homeless and elderly to queue up outside but the news spread along the invisible grapevine, and no one shows up to stand miserably in the rain.

All day long I imagine the faceless "hobo" who asked for a sandwich and was given a sandwich… and a cookie. I feel like crying. I wish I could have given him more. He surely smelled the roast cooking. He probably knew I routinely feed the overflow from the soup kitchen.

The rain falls, bitterly cold, cold to the bone kind of cold. I'd hate to be standing in the rain, waiting for a sandwich or a soup kitchen to open on a day like this, much less a Christmas morning. Was the man thankful? Did the sandwich/cookie touch his heart? Did he breathe a sigh of relief? Or did he curse the rain and God, and the soup kitchen, and my child?

James tells me Aqualung died. Our city's homeless mascot, Bill Dunn, showed up around town in 1971 pushing a shopping cart with an impossible stack of grocery bags towering above. His wild long hair and beard reminded us teens of Jethro Tull's Aqualung characterization, and the nickname stuck. Bill was never a threat to little girls and as far as I know, he didn't check out their pretty panties. No one I knew was afraid of him.

I sat at a lunch counter having a slice of pecan pie and a chocolate milkshake – disgusting to think of now but manna from heaven for the fifteen-year-old girl I was at the time. Aqualung – I didn't learn Bill's name until years later – moved along the sidewalk and I watched him through the restaurant's window. A man flicked a cigarette into the gutter and Aqualung scurried toward it. Birdlike in his movements, he darted and snatched up the smoldering butt before it went out. He smiled and took a whiff of it, then smoked the remaining tobacco.

Disgusted, dismayed and yet fascinated, I watched him finish the stranger's cigarette. I couldn't eat my food. I left a small tip for the waitress and with my legs trembling so hard I feared I'd collapse on the sidewalk, I walked up to Aqualung and shoved two brand-new cigarettes into his grimy hand. "Here you go," was all I could manage to squeak out. His eyes twinkled with such life and light that I was surprised. Everything else about him was dingy and smelly and dark. But those eyes…

The years passed and Aqualung remained a fixture in our town. At one time he was a hero, helping to solve a murder. He went missing one winter and the police tracked him down to someplace in North Carolina. He'd gone to a warmer area to wait out the winter. It amused me, a homeless man taking a vacation.

Our paths crossed numerous times over the next thirty years. Sometimes I'd be eating out and see him tucked into a booth in the back of the restaurant sipping coffee and eating dinner. Aqualung was never poor. In fact, he was rumored to be a millionaire and have countless bags of money in his shopping cart. I'd ask if he needed anything. Sometimes I sat with him, asking how he was and making small talk. It was important to me that he knew I saw him as human. He was always polite, rational if not always completely tuned into the moment.

Last year a reporter did a feature story on Aqualung for the newspaper. I didn't learn anything new but felt gratified that younger generations would know a little about our Aqualung. 

Now it is Christmas day and Aqualung is dead. My son said Bill "Aqualung" Dunn left his fortune to a son. My first thought was what woman had lain with Aqualung… I felt ashamed. At some time he had been some woman's son, another woman's lover. He hadn't always been Aqualung. The world felt a little smaller just then as I thought about my own son and his woman. Some tragedy could befall James that would drive him to live on the streets. I thought about the birds, the soup kitchen, and the hobo who'd asked for a sandwich. 

And I cried, not for the hobo, or the birds, or even for the rain. I cried for Bill Dunn's mother, and myself. 

Remains of the Fall

Remains of the Fall

A stand of birches

Waving in the wind

Tan tatters

Waving in the wind

Birch bark peeling

Waving in the wind

Shreds shivering

Waving in the wind

Remains of the Fall

Waving in the wind

Welcoming Winter

Nature, Grace, Redemption

(In honor of the first day of Autumn. ~GHC)

West Virginia roads suggest dancing. There is an innate rhythm to the undulations formed by lanes carved to shadow waterways that gently curve down the mountains. A sensuous sway of Nature's hips; she is a Mountain Woman making her way down the path with an apron full of walnuts in Autumn.~~GHC

Nature, Grace, Redemption

Each morning, Sun's light darts through thick foliage, seeking his mountain woman. He issues a clarion call to awaken and join him in the forest. He watches over her throughout the day even when she feels alone. She is courted by both Sun and Wind. The jealous suitors vie for her affection in an eternal battle.

Sun soothes her spirit, warms her body, lights her way in the gloom. Sun breaks the dark grasp of Winter, heralds the promise of Spring. Sun beats her in Summer, smothers her with his passion, lashes her with his harsh rays. His heat coaxes her musky essence; it drifts on the breeze. Mountain Woman lies panting and sweating in a verdant valley, drained and spent when he leaves her. She cries out from her spirit to Wind to come and bring relief.

Rivulets of perspiration trace the curves of her countenance and she dreams of Wind's sweet touch. Sensing her scent in the zephyr, Wind joins Mountain Woman. He whispers against her cheek, smoothes her hair. He strokes her everywhere at once. The hairs on her arms stand up as he wraps around and over and under her, finding his way into tiny crevices that Sun never discovers. Mountain Woman shivers from the sensation. He brushes her nipples, causing them to reach for his touch. He obliges.

But Wind is as cruel a lover as Sun. In Winter, he causes her hair to lash her face. He chaps her skin, chills her to the bone. In Winter, she sometimes weeps for Sun, wondering if he will ever return. Wind leaves as suddenly as he arrives, without warning every time. He is capricious, unlike faithful Sun who soars across the sky each morning and stays until nightfall when he settles into the trees like a bird returning to its nest.

Mountain Woman has a third lover: Night. Night too is faithful but undemanding. She waits until Sun leaves, gracious and patient for her turn. Her gentle fingers soothe Mountain Woman's tired spirit and restore her soul. She pulls Mountain Woman to her bosom, murmurs into her ear to rest, sleep, renew, and refresh.

Sometimes Wind comes while Mountain Woman lies within Night's arms. He rails against the walls, his jealousy evident. He howls outside her window, impotent and incapable of forcing her to unlatch her door and allow him in. He warns of Night's deceit.

Glittering diamonds emphasize Night's dark beauty. She offers gifts to Mountain Woman: the Moon and Stars. Night's jewels are sempiternal but cold and distant. They sparkle with false brilliance. Their light is mere reflection; their lives forfeit long ago. Like Mountain Woman, they cannot be possessed.

Mountain Woman wakens and makes her way down the hillside to the River. River is her true Love. River fills her every crevice, gentle and insistent, patient, persistent. Thorough. River caresses and treasures everything Mountain Woman offers and nothing more. If she deigns to only dip a dainty foot in, River caresses it, worships it. When Mountain Woman chooses to disrobe away from the prying eyes of Sun, Wind, or Night, and offers herself entirely into River's embrace, River welcomes her. River always accepts, never judges. River extends an invitation but never presses. Steady yet never stagnant, faithful yet not fawning, loving without lusting, River is the keeper of Mountain Woman's heart.