I know now why they call it
The Dead of Winter…
I know not because of the
strange days of warmth
that recently invaded
the endlessness of bitter winter air –
invaded with the life of spring
in the breeze
in the bright, shining sun
or the desire to be outside
(so odd a feeling for February)…
I know instead because of
the early morning rain
that fell on the roof of my home
as I sat in the silence
of a darkened morning hour…
suddenly I heard it
and then felt it
the pitter-pattering gently
until it had enveloped us –
me and my house –
in its cloak of love and comfort.
I listened
and remembered
soon the doves will join me
in my early morning prayer,
soon the crickets will sing to me
as I walk the path of evening,
again there will be chirping,
soft rain,
loud clouds rumbling,
and the caw, caw, caw
of the blackest bird…
I smiled as I remembered
the hope of these things
and suddenly the rain stopped –
or at least I noticed it stopped –
and the silence returned
not with the coldness of winter
but instead
like a warm wool blanket filled with
a new awareness
that nothing inside me
or around me
was dead…
I smiled again,
having been welcomed
just then
into the knowing
that just because it’s quiet
doesn’t mean it’s dead,
and I wondered when
they all will know, as well…