The Danforth Anchor

November. . .

Since the last one,
the world has arced another round
about the sun,

and another couple hundred twists around
its imaginary tilted center stick has done,

to take us to a time of greater gray
where the shade of tree and mount and night
are cloaking most oft
the warming, brightening, and enlivening light of day.

Our corner of the Earth
doing dormant,
inasmuch
as it, in its personal degree does dormant,

and seeing as,
eons ago,
‘twould seem she swirled forth from stars,
she is our primary, or at least our
direct intermediary
formant,

beyond just being,
although she surely also is,
our most masterful,
and our crucialest-to-heed
informant,

if we but attend
to the constant messages she sends
to help us choose
from the sum
of what we may,
and what we can,
and what is most apt
for us to do, or not to do,
what is and is not so important.

If not right now,
at some point soon,
wants to go to sleep.

And whatever we do,
like it or not,
we will do it with her. . .

Even though,
compared to things like
bears
and trees that lose,
these season days,
their leaves,
we are designed
more movement and more life to show.

And so,
our challenge is
that,
while we may have grander ideas,
or more defiant,
how to weather
this fast-upon-us
time of winter,

if we watch what she does
and recognize she is our mother
and take the gifts she gives,
in the time she gives them,

we may find worlds within
this world and ourselves
and restoration,
when we lean towards
following Earth’s suit,

using extra night and extra dark
not just for a standard modicum
but a plenteous, though likely not luxurious
share of sleep,

Which is apt
best to power,
on the right days
and at the right hours,
our mean routines
as well as our most
fanciful, ambitious exploration.

To walk
or lie still on this path,
choosing what best to do or not to do
and when,
as darkness comes,
if not to envelop us,
but to blanket us
so many hours of each ten,

presents quite an occasion
for heartfelt, joyous
giving of thanks,

and in a style befits
our very own corner of the world’s
particular phase,
of this particular current year,

which, if we keep eyes apeel
and ears atilt,

we will not only smoothly sail
but also
with an easy accuracy
and cheer.

A little tortoise,
full of life
seemed somehow
to have lost its way
and appeared along our walking way.

A determined head
A lagging pointed tail
and legs that wiggle
if you pick it up
and hold it in the air,
as if a ‘swimming in some water,
extended out beyond its shell.

Such creatures are widely said
to travel slow,
but quick was it,
and moving seeming very well.

Its gobbling a proffered lettuce leaf,
and sipping a bit of water
laid in a makeshift dish right at its feet,

Its struggling, scratching unsuccessfully,
to scale
the too-slippery yellow walls
of an old recycling crate
we put it in for safe keeping. . .

A few hours with that little one. . .
attention given,
wonders pondered upon. . .

What animates it
makes us move too.

A wisely chosen thought
seems to have sent it back on its proper track
and on its way
so that, before too long,

It will live back
where it belongs. . .

And very likely
we shall not meet again

Except for
where the memory
of its little visit here
within our hearts
can still live on.

Between the Universe,

my love,

and me–

we three–

we can take care of me.


The thought, invention,
problem solving,
deepest knowing,
and affection
align,
in space and time–
not always
by convention. . .

Sometimes, head on,
sometimes revolving,
indirect, like a spit-
or screw- or curveball,

at times now paring down,
at others, though, developing and growing,

more beautiful and sweeter
than the highest art
can muster to craft
the most sublime confection.

And the eventual attention,
and the care

can bring deep peace

where there had been

a temporary scare,

And render

a truly lasting
and great good

for one and all,

which, in the making,

surpasses far

the purely mental target goal

we dream but scarcely, if ever, see–

The bauble
that our greedy brains

would name Perfection.