CHICKADEES black white and gray diminutive and vibrant, you come about the hemlocks seeking sleeping insects and tiny seeds your phoebe whistles in January call to spring even in the most frigid day your presence steadfast reminders that winter too will pass bright chickadees hope is not a thought to you prayer has no substance in your lives the next seed the next drop of water the next night spent fluffed against the cold these, too, somehow you know will pass from you I take hope I can make it through the short cold days waiting for the moment when outside the window singing "phoebe" will be chickadees
Five years ago, I wrote the above poem, and it generated a bit of magic in its own way. I put together the worship bulletins each week for the two churches that my dear minister friend led, and for quite a few years, I put poetry on the cover, my own when I had something fresh to share. I had written this and then early in January, left a copy in Hamilton's box to let him see what would be appearing on the next Sunday's cover. He had read it after getting to his office and then took a call from another woman who was highly involved in the church. As she started describing the morning's wait outside with her daughter for the school bus and hearing the chickadees singing "phoebe," Hamilton said he started getting chills and read my poem to her. Synchronicity is everywhere, and for Hamilton, it was very strong that day, particularly since he personally had little awareness of the bird life that surrounded him in the Vermont countryside. To have two of his untitled assistants come at him on the same morning with chickadees and their unconquerable trust in the coming springtime was grist enough for the coming Sunday sermon. I was delighted.
I trust that you, reading this in whatever locale you are in, will take the moments necessary to realize the chickadees in your life. While they may not be the chickadees that I knew in New England, they are the wild things outside our doors that remain cognizant of the coming springtime. As Denise ("Transmutations") looks for that bright glimmer of crocus to lift her spirits out of the gloom of winter, so may you, too, catch the bright glimmers as the light lengthens.
Peace be with you,
Cherie Staples
Editor