Mothering, as any close observer of nature knows, is hard work. Even under the most felicitous of conditions, the young and defenseless must perpetually be nourished, guided, and protected. Under siege by storm or drought or predator, that effort escalates exponentially. For human mothers, too, the work is often arduous and the threats  – and compromises – staggeringly abundant.

Typically, National Poetry Month is a time of celebration here in our singularly literary neighborhood. Yet, this April is, as Joanne DeSimone Reynolds writes, “a hard March.”  For many of us now, seemingly everything from the global to the quotidian is infused with anxiety. Even poetry, even spring’s awakening.

Much about this now waning winter has felt fraught. From the quotidian to the global, it often seems as if the unpredictable has become the disconcerting norm. Yet, meteorological spring is here, friends; and the vernal equinox is fast approaching.

You are not alone. This message is poetry’s great gift. Other generations, too, have wondered how to find joy in a world on fire, how to spare love for a world seemingly bent on destruction. You are not alone, the poem whispers and lights the way.

Winter is an acquired taste, one which no one ever has savored more than Henry David Thoreau. As another winter settles in and a new, uncertain year approaches, I’ve been turning to Thoreau’s journals for reassurance that beauty still can be found even within the darkest of days.

The year has dwindled down to days. How do we not tote up our gains and losses, our quotidian triumphs and catastrophes? How do we not wonder which will fade and which will remain as we sidle into the unknown wilds of 2025?

The season of brilliance known as Fall Foliage is now past its peak. Nature, never one to indulge in instant gratification, will keep us waiting until next year for such glory to return again. Indeed, as October fades into November, the comparison to the morning after a much anticipated celebration is difficult to avoid. Whatever emotional let-down we might feel is physically reflected in the dull, dry leaves skittering and piling around our feet…

Poem of the Month followers are, in great probability, people who care about the environment and the arts. There is an equally great probability that you, dear readers, are fully aware of the impending election. Therefore, for this last, long month before the first Tuesday in November, we offer you a wise and calming meditation inspired by the beauty of our favorite farm. 

September is a liminal time. Some days, summer still lingers in the air.  Yet, there are other days – increasingly so - when the suddenly chilly winds stir the changing leaves and send us scrambling for our sweaters. 

August is sun and heat. It is vegetation, sere-edged and crisp underfoot; and it is fruit nearing ripeness on the tree.  And sometimes, often with little warning, it is the punch and wonder of a late-summer thunder storm.

Twilight in July is a mystical and liminal time. Within its shadows mingle the vestiges of the day’s bright, hot glory and the night’s hushed, fragrant promise of soothing respite. July evenings bridge and blend two distinct environments and, in so doing, create a new one all its own.

June’s gifts are rich and dazzling. Indeed, after the sun finally has set on these, the longest, loveliest days of the year, June lavishes us further with magic.