A January Retreat

In memory of Marcus Borg, and appreciation for Epworth By The Sea  

There are sullen winter spells 

that settle heavy on the soul 

like overcooked comfort food 

on two hour naps through half dark days 

stuck in a string of gray thirties, 

when wet descends in cold drifts 

as silent songbirds cling to trees 

and muffled crows cast about, listless. 

But, yes – when the cold cloud lifts 

I shall head south on a state road, 

past brown fields of dog fennel 

when backlit tips wear tan halos 

behind stubble ditches and broomsedge shoulders. 

I shall sail over silhouettes of distant cattle 

plying well trod pasture; beyond tin-roof sheds, 

strewn about with farm machines; 

above old lawns anchored by scotch broom 

and lonely oak; over ordered rows of old pecan 

outside the town where Remus broods; 

through the strip past Andalusia, 

set apart from the way to Walmart. 

I shall crest the fall line 

and roll the frozen swells 

of an ancient seabed 

that stretches out to the blue-green horizon 

of barren plantations in cash-crop pine. 

Will you come too? 

Shall we tune our souls to a mellow song? 

Can we ‘Let it Be’ ‘Sweet Baby James’ 

down ‘The Long and Winding Road’ again? 

So calm we are energized by Enya. 

So centered we bless the car that cuts us off 

and send our love the driver inside. 

For there are kind winter spells,

and we are heading south, 

cutting through noon shadows 

to a land of graybeard and ghosts,

confluence of earth and sky, 

river and sea, where brackish channels 

braid marsh and mudbank, 

porpoise feed the peaceful waters, 

and mist mingles with heaven at dawn.

Epworth By The Sea