Anna in Autumn

Today it snowed on the beach.  This does not happen very often on the West Coast.  I woke to drive to Crescent City to go to church.  I looked out the window and saw this.

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I decided to not go to church.  It’s not that I have not driven in snow but I don’t think too many people over here have much experience.  After Sterling Creek, I know about white knuckling it.

As I was sitting enjoying the fire and my tea I noticed a hummingbird on a tree branch covered with snow.  It reminded me of last week’s sermon on Jesus’ transfiguration.  God telling the world, “This is my Son,” just as he did at Jesus’ baptism.  this time there were witnesses- the disciples.  There were also Elijah and Moses. the Law and Prophets. It was for the disciples to know that Jesus was and is God.  He is not an earthly ruler but our Savior who died for us so we could be saved.

It got me thinking about a poem I wrote a couple of years ago and hypostasis union.  God simultaneously God and Man, just as we are simultaneously Saint and Sinner.

Hypostatic union (from the Greek: ὑπόστασις hypóstasis, “sediment, foundation, substance, subsistence”) is a technical term in Christian theology employed in mainstream Christology to describe the union of Christ’s humanity and divinity in one hypostasis, or individual existence

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I wrote “Anna in Autumn” after viewing a hummingbird in the cold of November. I always thought they migrated.  Then I wondered what do they eat in winter when there are no flowers? I found they eat bugs.  The poem grew out of that experience.

Anna in Autumn

There are snowmen hands on trees

and leaves hang by nails.

Autumn blue foretells a winter sky.

It is the quiet without the storm.

The spring green of plastic turf

recalls the ghosts of summer.

I can almost hear the muffled thuds…

the silence is a kind of death.

Winter lies on the horizon,

anticipating 13 degrees;

snow on the valley floor.

The wind died among fallen leaves,

hushing traffic on the freeway.

Into the silence…

I hear the wing, the feather,

of brown girl, flicker

between the cross of branches.

She shimmers,

hovers in late afternoon light.

The beating wings, pumping heart

= the substance of life in winter.

Winter possesses death

in the drift of lavender composting grey.

Life is hidden.

Life behind beetle bark

and spider silk,

hawking the living out of mid-air.

I ponder

Anna in Autumn

and hypostasis union.

Life stalled in migration.

Life lived without apparent

sustenance.

In, with, and under

the water, blood, and bread.

The Divine and the Mundane

in a tiny brown body.

First published in The Green Silk Journal, Winter 2016.

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Published by: Basicallybarb

Barbara A Meier is a poet, teacher, and mother, trying to write her way out of Kansas, anxiety and depression. Instead of indulging in feeling like garbage, trash, or rubbish, she chooses to examine the debris of her life by writing poems about it. After all as a forgiven, child of God, simultaneously saint and sinner, she is loved and cherished by her God.

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