Winter Violets

napo2020button1-1.pngglopo2020button1-1.png

IMG_2868-1

Winter Violets – acrylic and pen n watercolor paper – 18′ X 24″ – Lex Loenard

 

I didn’t know they are called winter violets
I know them as johnny jump ups, violas
They don’t bloom here in winter’s bite
They wait for spring to introduce themselves
They tuck in wherever they please
I cannot design their path
A surprise, a nod to independence, survival

                                                         winter violet
                                                         she carries
                                                         a tiny fire
                                                                   – Ami Tanaka

My grandmother grew them in her lawn
Candytuft their partner
Honeyed liquor for bees
Judicious steps for bare feet
A summer’s expedition 

                                                       violets here and there
                                                       in the ruins
                                                       of my burnt house
                                                                      – Chiyo-ni

It is snowing, again
Another kept quarantine
Amid no-contact solitude
Amid numbers piling up
Like snow
Like leaden slats of blighted ruins
Waiting for Phoenix to rise again
Or little purple yellow faces
Peeking out from beneath
A kept quarantine

                                                       no limit to kindness
                                                       winter violets
                                                                       – Mitsu Suzuki

There is a kindness of canvas
An artist’s peace
If just a glance, a moment to dwell
An offering
Rising through depths of piled forfeiture
There is a spark of hope
Purple yellow faces
A cycle not denied

 

Author’s Note –

I was graciously invited to attend an on-line reading of haiku by some amazing poets from the Pacific Northwest and around the world. They read one haiku – their own or another’s – and spoke of the meaning. It was in celebration of International Haiku Poetry Day. The theme was taken from The Poetry Society of America who invited poets to write about “poems they return to in difficult times – to find solace, perspective, or even moment of delight.” Thank you Cj Prince and Victor Ortiz for this brilliant opportunity to learn and grow.

In the short hour, three of the haiku included winter violets. The images stayed with me and deepened as each new winter violet popped its head up to speak.

I took it to the canvas first and played with a different process than I usually do. It is very difficult to photograph this image. It just doesn’t do it justice. You may get a better idea of what it looks like if you do close-ups of the above image.

Then I moved to write with the inspiration of the poets – Mitsu SuzukiChiyo-ni, and Ami Tanaka. Much gratitude.

Undone

When ghostlike fog wrapsDoro3
itself around your arms,
be wary if you stay.
There is temptation
to welcome softness, allow
a mantling about and through
palms outstretched,
fingers sans raiment.
But its demands are fierce.

There is impregnable beauty
if you do pause as cold
descends stilling fog’s path.
Majesty in each mounded
crystal cling, appendages
knitted one to another,
a new glove and cloak.
Astonishment in delicacy,
an artistry in lethal cold.

I reach to you,
as trees on winter mornings,
undone. My once summer
facade laid bare,
a deathly inevitability.
No longer hiding my array,
I am yours to draw,
an artist’s form
for you to mold and pattern me,
a remarkable fragment of
your bewildering eternity.

.

.

.

It’s not always easy to see grace.

It is in letting go of what we think we are that we become what we must be.

You see, sometimes the Divine is not warm and fuzzy. Sometimes our Holy One comes through cold and harsh demands that make it difficult to realize the beauty unless we still ourselves and take the time to acknowledge it and experience it for what it is.

Nature is a threshold into the Divine. The snow crystals on tree limbs in early January were astounding. Fog hung thick as the bitter cold arrived. The fog, no longer able to stay afloat, settled on trees and turned into new forms of winter wonder. Many photos of this found their way into my life. My friend, Dorothea Madry, graciously allowed me to use her photo to pair with today’s poem.

Enjoy the cold. The barren trees. The icy mounds. You never know what gifts they bring.

Lexanne

 

Click here if you would like to receive this as a weekly newsletter, Journey/lex.  It arrives either Friday or Saturday each week. I would love to have you join me along my journey.