aching toward spring

spring bugles, I nap

this winter cold has come and stayed awhile,

so that it’s cost more to heat the house

and fewer plants outside have tempted probability

by an early budding out toward bloom,

the trees are still bare

and hesitant daffodils bide their time

where they fear the cold

and only release their joy where it’s the safest,

the crocus around the house do not hesitate

and on a warm day blossom after blossom

quietly shouts that spring will come,

spring peppers call loudly as if all were waiting in unison

until a switch was thrown  by future tadpoles who want to be,

birds and squirrels seem to have the same switch turned-on,

when liquid dared to come north from the Gulf in clouds,

it recently covered the ground in white

and finished as an icy sheen upon everything,

I worked to photograph cherry and dogwood branches

as the clarity of ice-encased buds ached to remember last year’s hope

for a tomorrow that will bear a sweet future,

the garden is tilled 

and hard at work incorporating fall’s leaves 

in the plans for summer,

inside my first tomatoes have a month start in plans for summer
and exhibit their first true leaves,

bear and bud and frog have slept so they’re ready to wake

whereas we humans have worked through the winter

and fought entropy with lights and heated rooms,

and lists of chores that must be done,

now, as the natural world wakes up,

we are tired and need to retreat

just as spring bugles that it’s time to charge,

this year, again, I feel the disjoint

between nature’s energy and my need for a nap.

by Henry H. Walker

February 25, ’14

unacceptably lesser

a loss is a hole

I walk forward into the future

with the gift of others with whom to share the journey,

when a companion drops away,

particularly from an untimely abrupt death,

I feel a hole in the group--

an absence where I still feel

the ghost of a presence,

yet I can no longer walk with them,

listen to them,

laugh with them,

the jigsaw puzzle of who I feel myself to be

misses a crucial piece,

the hole is real,

and, while I walk forward into the future,

next to me is an absence,

and it’s hard not to feel unacceptably lesser.

by Henry H. Walker

February 14, ’14

two windows on the universe

the active and the passive

a Wordsworth poem long ago drew me,

as William sat on a stone

and argued for a “wise passiveness,”

most of the time, I love action, doing,

I spin web after web of connection

to see what can be built,

to support each effort of the building

by noticing, and applauding,

and working to be a glue

that helps the one bond to the other,

I feel of worth in the doing,

and it’s hard to stop and rest,

when I disconnect a bit from the frenetic spinning,

I find tears and joy both rise within me,

for I see where I am, I feel the losses,

and I see again, anew, her, the one I love,

the one whose presence by my side

shakes and grounds my universe,

the active and the passive are both windows to treasure,

for the truth of the universe is so awesome

that no one view can reveal enough 

of the hidden meaning that we need to find,

so that we know where we are

and what we are called upon to do.

by Henry H. Walker

February 16, ’14

what can become. . .

the reality of possibility

reality is,

and it is right to see that clearly

with no filter of expectation,

how else can science help us, for example?

for we have to know where we are

in order to decide where we want to go, and how,

however, reality is also potential,

and it is possible to imagine,

to foresee how this reality 

can shift into somewhere better,

I’m proud of us

when we see the possible within students

and then when we find a way 

to help innate possibility become skill,

and skill to be expressed,

reality is,

yet, significantly,

reality is also what can become.

by Henry H. Walker

February 7, ’14

tentative, and audacious

the seed, and hope

here in mid-winter

I like to start my tomatoes inside:

I choose varieties that the seed catalogue shouts to me

will respond well to my desire for the perfect fresh tomato,

I prepare my cup containers of potting soil

and carefully place 2-3 precious seeds in each,

I keep them wet and warm, and hope. . .

today the first seedlings broke into the air--

tentative, audacious, full of hope in their reaching to the sky

and full of doubt in the frailty of the earliest shoot,

here in mid-winter

I also like to produce a play

in which middle schoolers reach out 

of the stasis that calls to them

and venture forth into the audacious tentativeness

that risks failure while it reaches toward the sky,

there’s a lot of reality that challenges each reach upward:

how sure the foundation from which to reach,

how sure the confidence with which to reach,

how blasting the winds from peers, or culture, or self,

and yet the seed takes the risk,

the plant reaches into being,

the actor opens self to what can be,

I hope for reach plant to release

the awesome reality of a perfect fresh tomato,

I joy when each actor releases a performance

that binds us in a spell,

the excellence of the potential within the seed of self

reaches toward the sky, and makes it!

by Henry H. Walker

February 6, ’14

a way into the light

the play as vehicle

a play is a vehicle

within which we can enjoy the trip

and find ourselves at its end in a new place,

still the same people,

yet who through the journey have learned

to be truer to the potential of the self within,

when we cast a play,

we see amazing potential that aches to be released,

and we work each rehearsal to clear a path,

so that what can be, will be,

and the wholeness we see in the possible

reveals itself as a wholeness before us,

and each is seen and appreciated,

both as an individual light

and as a great beacon as all together flare,

nothing can be better for a teacher

than for the glory within each

to be released and to be seen,

for potential to find its way into the light,

and to be the light.

by Henry H. Walker

January 30, ’14