Lasting the Winter

Walking back to my house
from my mailbox,
I always look up
to where treetops touch the sky.
Today, I paused to count nests—
seven in different trees—
tucked high in the elbows of bare branches.
I first noticed them when foliage thinned
and leaves fell last fall.
So far, they’ve survived winter winds
and downpours of ice-chilled rain.
I’ve read that most birds
don’t return to last season’s nest.
They build fresh ones.
But I wonder if these old nests
have been a refuge for birds
caught in a cold winter drizzle.
Each seems an obvious oasis,
an inviting island under a field of clouds.
Or stars.
Or a crisp blue frosty sky.
I will not know if the birds return
to these nests,
for the trees will soon leaf out again,
and the nests will be hidden.

I think of those of us who are nesting,
holding space for family,
for friends.
In breezy, balmy seasons of life,
we’re sheltered and hidden and full.
But when branches are bare
and icy winds howl,
when darkness comes early
and stays late,
it’s then that we can look around and see
that we’re not the only tender woven safe space.
All along, there’s been another nearby,
and another,
and another.
Stay safe, nests and nesters.
Hold life and love and hope.
Stay strong through the winter winds.
Spring will come.
– kh

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Night Has Not Fallen

It’s early twilight,
that gray-blue time of evening
when the neighborhood eases into
the quieter hours of our day.
Chili is simmering on the stove
and the table is set,
so I sit in my rocking chair
to witness the world beyond windows,
to watch the night fall.
“Fall” is a strange way to say it.
Night doesn’t really fall;
it slips in,
seeps through bare, laced branches,
slowly veils the hills.
Tonight the sky is cloud-covered,
a full sweep of blue-gray
gradually growing violet in the east
as if heaven’s light switch
is slowly dimming the day.
It’s a peaceful drift,
moment by moment
as the sky lets go of its dusky gray
and drapes itself in a deepening blue
inviting all who pause and watch
to enter its ease,
to breathe its comfort,
to settle into the serenity of evening
and experience the magic of
twilight blue turning into velvet dark,
whispering calm to a world
that will soon settle into sleep.
No, night has not fallen.
It has snuggled in.
-kh-

 

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week (made by sun shining through a bottle of syrup):

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

The Wisdom of the Ink

Aprons,
plastic tablecloth,
printer paper,
black ink,
paper towels,
wet rags,
we were ready to create,
my grandson and I.
After I gave the requisite precautions,
he dripped and dribbled
black ink on white paper
wherever he chose.
Then he tipped the paper—
gently, I cautioned again,
grandma that I am—
angled the paper one way,
then the other.
Black paint eased into flowing lines,
pooled here and there,
crept across the page
as one young boy drifted
into the fascination
of the flow and spread of black rivers
mapping themselves into tiny streams
curving,
turning corners,
intersecting.
To no one but the ink,
he softly said,
“Time to create passages,
connect with others,
and make peace.”
Amen, I thought.
May it be.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Here’s part of my grandson’s ink picture:

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Winter’s Brittle Beauty

I am warm-weather at heart,
loving all things green and growing,
but when bare elms stretch
in latticework across the sky
and pine branches bow to a cold, fresh wind,
when clouds layer softly in shadowed grays,
and dried blooms and crisp leaves stand stiff as straw,
when marigold seed pods dangle on their stalks,
and basil seeds shelter on tiers of miniature pagodas,
when frost dusts shingles,
and smoke rises in lazy curls from a neighbor’s chimney
and the scent of wood smoke drifts through the air,
when a chilly in-breath fills my lungs and clears my head,
then I am grateful for Winter,
for her brittle beauty,
for Nature’s season of rest.
The world seems somehow simpler,
and I am simply grateful.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Around an Unfrozen Pool

I woke to a world draped in winter white
thicker than a down-filled comforter,
deep enough to swallow my snow boots
up to their necks.
“The fun stuff,” said the weatherman,
perfect for building snow people, snow forts,
and snowballs to launch at them.
It wasn’t our first snow of the season.
The first snow came several weeks ago
in a light layer falling as I drove home.
Sparkles fluttered past the gleam of headlights
as if God were sprinkling glitter over the city
to celebrate Winter.
By the next morning,
snow-glitter veiled roofs and decks,
grass-blades bent, ice-frosted,
brittle petals shivered, frozen.
Robins gathered at my heated birdbath
like office workers around a water cooler.
Feathers fluffed, bellies round as balls,
they chipped and chirped,
dipped their beaks, bobbed up,
eyed each other.
Until a squirrel came to drink.
Then they flew off together,
all but one brave robin who perched on the porch rail,
squinting over his feathered shoulder,
his back to the squirrel.
When at last the squirrel scampered off,
a mockingbird took its place,
then a cedar waxwing found his way,
maybe straying from his flock,
maybe the only one to spy
and wisely fly
to an unfrozen pool.
The squinting robin finally flew,
but probably just to wait in the nearest tree.
Robins share when they have to,
but I think that they think
they own this spot.
And in a world of winter white,
I am content to let them think so.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.

Playful Day

Dawn came layered in clouds this morning,
a parfait of light and shade,
pale peach and pale blue
turning lavender as I watched.
Out of the layer of peach,
a glow brightened, bloomed,
sparkled out—
the sun bubbled up,
a happy round lemon.
Those who know,
who foretell such things,
say that this will be our day,
an interplay of cloud and sun,
a mix of light and shade,
until the day tires of play,
leaving a mountainous cloudscape
in the west,
which will flatten, crestfallen
into a field of darkening gray.
The wind will sigh, strong and gusty,
and the playful day
will settle
into an evening
of rain.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.

The Changing Weather of Peace

Peace and stillness—
sometimes they go together,
sometimes they don’t.
Like wind,
peace can breeze in softly,
but it can also whistle sparkling cold
through cracks in closed hearts.
Wake up, it says, all will be well.
There’s a pensive peace
that watches the sky for storm clouds.
There’s peace that sighs in relief
when trouble skims past,
simply rocking branches, teasing leaves.
Then there’s peace that weathers the storm
like a boulder unmoved,
the tree left standing.
And there’s a festive peace,
noisy and fresh as a sudden spring shower,
full of laughter, lifted glasses, shared stories.
This holiday season held that peace for me—
a flowing, swirling, rushing peace
of listening and watching the joy of family,
the gratitude of gathering,
the hope of health and happiness to come.
Now that family has left
and I sit alone in my family room,
the stillness returns.
Peace drifts down like silent snow,
and I know that peace
is the weather
of the healing heart.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.

The Contours of the Seasons

Sunlight gives a brief nod
to the north of the world
this time of year
as Day is quick to pull her cloak
back around her shoulders,
to doze in darkness again.
But from this Winter Solstice moment,
each new dawn will come earlier,
each sunset will take its leave later,
light will linger a while longer,
anticipating Sunlight’s reign.
All of nature—
cardinals, robins, juncos,
crickets and moths,
elms and hackberries,
even dirt and rocks—
follow the contours of the seasons,
the ebb and flow of light and dark,
the interplay of cold and warmth,
the whims of the wind,
the moods of the rain.
Darkness gives way to light,
cold eases into warmth,
wind calms,
rains soften.
Nature teaches the rhythms of life.
If I pause to feel her heartbeat,
listen to the whisper of her breath,
match my steps to the dance of Time,
then when sunlight gives a brief nod
at this dark time of year,
I smile and nod back.
-kh-

 

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.

The Moon was Half

The moon was half tonight,
a white porcelain bowl perched
on a thin shelf of hackberry branches
brushing the night sky.
I wanted to reach out,
to cup it in my palms like
a bowl of soup
or an extra large cocoa.
I wanted to drink from it
a magical sweet moonlight.
Surely it would be smooth,
deliciously moon flavored,
a taste that only those who’ve sipped
the milk of the moon would know.
It would satisfy and warm with wonder,
make the eyes sparkle,
make the smile serene.
A child would notice and ask,
“Why are you so happy?”
and I would answer, “Ah,
it’s because the moon
was half tonight,
and I am full to overflowing.”
–kh–

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.

What the Wind Brought

In my lap, the cat pricked her ears,
glanced over her shoulder
at the sound of a leading wave
of a sea of wind
splashing its way through the trees
in a gusty rush of chilled air,
a cold front—
or as we used to say in Texas,
a Blue Norther.
The cat sighed and cozied in
as if to say, “And so it starts.”
And so it did.
Bits of leaves and seeds
hit the window glass,
the wind chime sang,
the warm room turned cold,
drafty,
and the Blue Norther blew.
“Watch!” its breathy whisper whirled,
“Soon you will wake up to see
roofs powdered with frost.”
Years ago,
on one wall of Grandmother’s kitchen
there hung a picture of a red-cheeked elf
carefully torn from a magazine—
Jack Frost waving a twig wand
working his fairy magic.
Through spring,
through summer,
through autumn he waited there
until his own happy season rolled around,
and then he reigned.
So as the cat snuggled in
and I listened to wild waves of wind,
I knew that his season had come.
And sure enough—
as Grandmother would say—
sure enough the next morning,
when I looked out my cold-paned window,
I saw the world frosted icy white,
glittering in morning sunlight,
and I knew that during the night,
Jack Frost had passed by.

-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2024. All rights reserved.