Winterlight

There is no light so resonant
as maplelight on November afternoons
when late sun strikes with everything he has
through storm-rinsed blue.
Unless it be the winter skyline—
tangerine and lemon all day at the edge of iron
in the far and colorful country beyond the mountains.

I was on my way to some necessary task.
And now I am watching the squirrels
roll up maplelight leaf by leaf,
stuff it in their mouths and run away with it.
And this is my task now too, not quite
self-appointed: to partake of light
as long as my heart and the beating day allow.

The Pleasure of Walking

resides firmly
in walking.

And after, when the body
has grown still

and is still
moved.

Six Contemplative Songs
from a Mountainside on the California Coast

1.

hive-hum
and wren-ripple

massive silence

of the yellow-striped agave
I could build my house in

2.

deep shade
in the chapparal-scented noon

a sip of cool wine

red—as nothing else
in this long green moment

3.

little river of breeze brings
the holy drone

of six-legged siblings
praying with their bodies

4.

blue light of evening
last to leave
my heart

5.

two great-horned owls:
an oboe and a flute

6.

The mind may grow tired
of its independence.

In which case:
the bubble of quail at morning.

In which case: stories
in the unfamiliar stars.

Persist

Beneath these branches, night shelters
early and late, concealed
from the scent of lilacs in the dawn.

My thoughts with it—blessedly left
to this single slow companion.
Shy of their work, and needing examples

of silence, stubbornness:
the persistence of camellia flowers, whole
though they've long slipped to soil.

The thousand candles dogwood lights
gleam in the wood's green mind,
cupped behind her quiet hands of fog.

My contemplative practice is Celtic Christian, with some gnarled old pagan roots. It emerges daily out of the joy and discipline of walking and conversing with the landscapes I love.

I walk preferentially at liminal times, alone. I pray, in words or just attention, to God or to the land. I listen for what is offered, outside and in. Sometimes that's the opportunity for composition, and I shape the words in my heart until they resonate with that offering, and give something back.

~ ~ ~

Tara K. Shepersky is a contemplative walker, writer, & photographer, based in Oregon's Willamette Valley. Her first book is Tell the Turning, a collection of poems from Bored Wolves, with ink-wash illustrations by Lucy Bellwood. Her current project is The PenPalProject, in which you are cordially invited to participate.

More on Tara Shepersky’s work can be found on our Links page.