I don’t have many unchanging rituals.
One, though, is consistent.
I make coffee every morning, first thing.
When it’s brewed, I put the first splash in a cup,
walk outside, whatever the weather,
sing a morning song to the sky,
(the song varies)
and offer that bit of elixir to the Earth.
Seldom with profound thoughts or prayers.
Always with gratitude for another day.
Sometimes I linger, watching the stars shimmer
in the clear cold winter sky.
Sometimes I briefly sing, splash, and hurry in
out of the blowing snow.
In the summer I face east and notice
where the sun is rising, tracking it in its journey north.
In the winter no sun greets me, but sometimes Mother Moon
is setting in the west, full and bright.
Always the Eddy Mountains etched against the horizon,
or cloud-hidden, cloaked against my eyes.
Black Butte to the east, massive, permanent,
hides her big sister, Shasta, from my sight,
but I know she’s there!
My ideas, projections, wants, and wishes
fade a bit and silence ensues.
Is it silence? Or have I simply become dull
and ordinary, without profundity
in my elder years?
I hope so.