Articles and Recordings

December 16, 2011

The Snow King stiffly dreams on his mountain throne. 
With creaky arms, he stretches to scratch
A frozen ear beneath his pine crown. 
Like the field before him, his mind drifts.
Mother Ocean spreads away
Beneath loving curve of coastal hills. 
Oak spreads her arms over all.  Cold lingers.
Chilly lake is smooth and green. 
After rain, a congregation of oaks
Reach longingly over her. 
Lichen crawls even more slowly.
Rain warms, eventually. 
Hounds tongue, Indian warrior, calypso orchid,
Milkmaids in grass, all languidly drip. 
A single madrone leaf beads up, green.
Iris veins bleed color.  In moist patches
Amid scrub oak, downed wood and vetch curl,
They bend their supple limbs and drip
Violet, lavender and pale ivory over the duff.
Dancing stone curves, dropping bluffs,
Slick boulders, smooth wet sand. 
Polished red ladybug lights on tumbled beach pebble. 
Work never done, Ocean never sleeps. 
Lowlands swelter long; mountain finally melts.
arouse lupine, paintbrush, yellow yarrow, mule ears.
Above timberline,
Eager phlox, asters; waxy
Blue at edge of snow.
Plugged with lava at the peak,
Thunder Mountain roars ancient echoes. 
Pale at morning, angry late under fiery sky.
Where has day gone? 
It echoes off granite and hides behind stone. 
It silhouettes pines and makes cloud-funnels of fire.
Nectar gone, seeds flown,
Hummingbird lingers on bare twig with bright black eye. 
Below, glossy mushrooms come up for air.
Maples gild, madrones tarnish,
Oaks rust, acorns burnish. 
Wild turkey stalks, scratching.
When firs rise up indoors, wooden birds make nests. 
Stars appear at branch tips, and water turns to glass. 
Distant angel songs are heard.
Wonder blooms like snowflakes.

Stephen Orsary
December 16, 2011

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Bioenergy Balancing Center North

Friday morning sneaks through the fog
Trying to make off with the day.
He stuffs pale light into grey bags
And stashes them behind my house,
Waking me early, like the garbage men.
The last red plum leaves dangle precariously,
Then drop to sprinkle the ground
Like cookie crumbs,
And frost ices the wooden slats over the patio.
Yes, there is baking to be done.
The new red mixer on the kitchen counter
Needs to be put to work.
And the boxes need to get to the post office.
But the Christmasberry is red on the mountain,
Mossy bays twist seductively in the mist,
And woodpeckers are heckling me
For being away so long.

With nearly frozen fingers and an eager eye,
I lace up my boots.

Stephen Orsary
December 16, 2011