To Let Come
I am not a calendar with
Straight lines etched across my self
And tidy numbers telling me
Which day and month I am
And which page I should next be turning,
Which intentions I must be setting and what should be released
Instead I lay beside the winter coat
Of the hibernating bear
And borrow her slumber for a while
As the snow piles outside my door
and softens sounds, colors vanishing, contours fading,
I heed the invitation to slip into the timeless rest
Of a winter branch
To ease the aches and weariness of a year gone by,
Crept upon this mammal self.
To curl there, not in cynicism nor in despair,
But in a lingering of joys and tears,
in a fullness of stopping, of pausing
in a rounded cup of gratitude. That this too is allowed.
I trust that there will be a time for spring
And the seeds that now lie deeply dormant
Will rise anew to bud and flower
When their time is ready
For change happens not by a clock,
But when the old has done its time
When the new takes the next simple step: to emerge
When death has completed its round, entered
the Stillness of Nothing
And remembered itself as Life.
For now, not a finger wants to lift itself, until it does.
I am beckoned to drop
winter earth, the gestures of
trying, intending, efforting, pushing through.
To drop my will for a while — it has done overtime
And should the flicker of worry or doubt
That I should be doing more
Arise, once again
Gently I shall remind myself, that winter is the season
To remember who I AM, not to create myself into who I think I want to be.
And I shall nestle closer to the hibernating bear,
and share her breath a while longer.