Blooming

Moonrise: 7:53 P.M. Sunrise: 8:02 A.M.

Moonset: 8:29 A.M. Sunset: 5:20 P.M.

Amaryllis

R.G. Everson

When I was born my mother was given an amaryllis

which she tended carefully, cutting it back

after it had bloomed each year It was known

as Ronald's amaryllis That amazing flower

continued to bloom decade after decade until I

was forty-seven years old, when it withered and died

Since then I've jokingly (or not so jokingly)

said I was living on borrowed time beyond my means

It is cold outside, there are angels in the snow, but my amaryllis is blooming inside. She is definitely a "she", astonishing in her beauty. I have no idea how old she really is, how many times she has bloomed before, and who has watched her bloom. It really does not matter. She is blooming now for me - four magnificently large flowers at the end of January, in the middle of winter.

22 Minutes of Light

The night is a big black Cat.

The moon is her topaz eye.

The stars are the mice she hunts at night

In the fields of her topaz sky.

- G. Orr Clark

Moonrise: 11:23 A.M. Sunrise: 8:11 A.M.

Moonset: 2:46 A.M. Sunset: 5:08 P.M.

i888899 My big tabby cat, George Eliot, just jumped on the keyboard, adding his own contribution to this posting. I have no idea what those numbers mean. Now he is purring on my lap as I type, eyeing either the cat on the screen or the stars behind it. It has been cloudy and grey for days - little chance to see either the sun or moon rise or set. Still, both are on my mind a lot. Since New Moon, 9 days ago, we have gained 22 minutes of daylight. If this is a contest, light is winning. The amaryllis on my window sill thinks so too!

New Moon

Moonrise: 9:11 a.m. Moonset: 7:49 p.m.

The moon was new on Friday and at school we have begun a month of moon watching, sky watching, star watching. Yesterday was a perfect New Moon watching evening. I tried to take a picture of the crescent, but the best I could do was the sun setting on the prairie. All the same, that first glimpse of the New Moon is always slightly amazing to me. It is my favourite phase of the moon - a thin and slanted smile in the sky. Yesterday it was low in the sky, just above the horizon, far to the lower right of Jupiter. It was cloudy all day today, so no chance to see the moon or stars or even Jupiter. Maybe tomorrow . . .

My amaryllis continues to grow at an astonishing rate. Soon it will bloom!

Still Growing

“In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.” - Albert Camus

Knowing how difficult winter can be for me, a friend from away sends this quote and I keep searching for the "invincible summer" in me. I suppose that is why I planted this amaryllis in December. It is so necessary to have visible signs of growth all year long. Each day my amaryllis grows at least an inch!! It is quite amazing that something green like this is happening so close to me in January. I literally carry it from window to window, trying to find the most available light. I give the pot a quarter turn in the morning, and another at night, hoping it will continue to grow straight and tall. I have two more bulbs to plant once this one blooms. That should take me through to March when all my daylight hours will not be spent inside a building which does not have enough windows for someone like me. Years ago my students made tile pictures of an amaryllis - each one was different. This picture includes the sun and sky and green grass, even though it was created in the snowy white winter. There was definitely an "invincible summer" living inside this little artist.

New Year Amaryllis

The second day of this brand new year. When the earth is as frozen as it is right now, it is hard to remember that things are growing anywhere. It is hard t0 have faith in what is happening underground. I planted this amaryllis bulb at the end of November, left it on my cold windowsill - southern exposure, but very little heat. Each day, for weeks, I looked for signs of green. But nothing. And still nothing. I watered it and talked to it, reminded the bulb that it should be reaching for the light, suggesting that it might try focusing a just a little bit harder. Still, all I saw was a dead-looking bulb. I almost gave up. Maybe I should have been singing to it or playing a little piano - a Bach prelude, a Beethoven sonata, a tune buried somewhere in my head. But my hands were cold. I think I was having trouble focusing. And then, last week, completely on its own, a hint of emergence - a thin green flame. And now, this week, there are two flames. I can almost see them growing. Two inches tall today. By tomorrow, probably three. Even in my cold, cold house, in January, it is happening . . . life!

Here is a very tiny poem written and given to me years ago by Spencer, one of my little students. He gave it to me printed on a little gift tag he had made out of purple paper. It was the end of the school year and we were both moving on to something new - he to a new classroom, me to a new school. His poem has been taped to my writing room wall ever since - a little dusty and crinkled around the edges. Sometimes I have forgotten that that it is there, kind of like all those other things that have underground lives of their own - bulbs, seeds, stories, poems, hopes, desires, good will, love, energy - the things that keeps us going and growing. Happy New Year everyone!

DEAR

Dear

is the word

we use

at the

beginning.

Happy

new

class!

- Spencer Vatrt Watts

Solstice

It is the winter Solstice - shortest day of the year, longest night. This is a summer picture of light on my sunroom floor. It will be months before the sun again shines at an angle which gives me these kind of shadows, but from this day forward, we begin tilting towards the light. Today the sun rose at 8:24 a.m. and set at 4:30 p.m. which means 8 hours and 6 minutes of day, 15 hours and 54 minutes of night. No wonder I am searching my files, looking for pictures of light, no wonder the little stone angel in my backyard is facing the east and warming a little bird in her hands. She is actually missing one wing and a halo, so she is kind of stuck here, with the rest of us, watching shadows change, doing mental math with minutes of sunlight. We have only a little fresh snow on the ground. Until recently it has been too cold for snow, but today, at noon, the sun was shining at just the right angle to make the new flakes sparkle. We look for light where we can find it.

Forty Below Zero

"A hell of a night for a walk," the man I meet on the sidewalk says. It is dark and cold and we are both covered in so many layers of clothing that we would not know each other, even if we had met before, which we probably have. Both of us are walking fast, fast enough to make our own heat. The stars are crisp and the snow is, too. When winter like this sets in, I measure the temperature by the kind of squeak beneath my feet. It is very squeaky tonight. The closest I can come to taking a picture of cold like this, is the frost on my front windows. Still, I am walking each night, just me and the man who thinks it is hellish. Which it could be, were it not for the infinite sky - Orion striding southward, the moon a waning crescent, the crunch of my feet carrying me quickly through all this darkness. As I walk, a children's poem by Oliver Herford, sings in my head and I speak it out loud, the words muffled by my scarf:

I heard a bird sing

in the dark of December,

a magical thing

and sweet to remember.

We are nearer to spring

than we were in September,

I heard a bird sing

in the dark of December.

Later, in the night, sleeping, I dream of that bird - a shadow of a bird, really, perched on the bare branches of one of the trees I walk beneath each night. It is cold, but he is singing and I am walking. I cannot hear his song, my ears are covered, but his beak is open, cloudy puffs of song float from it, and I know he is singing, "WE ARE NEARER TO SPRING THAN WE WERE IN SEPTEMBER. . . "