A Deep River Year - 2017

Today marks a new year in the Jewish calendar, Rosh Hashanah. It is a time for casting away the regrets and mistakes of the past and looking forward to a sweet new year to come. This week also brings us to the autumn equinox, the moment in the year's turning when daylight and night are equal in length. An old tradition says that on this "balancing" day of the year (as well as on its counterpart in March), it is possible to stand a raw egg on its end. Presumably the gravitational or magnetic forces of the universe make this possible, though most scientists agree that this is just an urban legend. Still, I will go to the refrigerator and retrieve a fresh egg and make the attempt. It will be my humble, harmless exercise to celebrate the inexorable passage of time once more.

We live in a world of constant motion and change. Soon the days will grow shorter and we will awaken in the dark and eat our suppers in the dark as well. Winter's bitter grasp is already around us, though we still have a few tender, golden weeks to savor before the snow falls. But we don't need the calendar to remind us of these changes. We look in the mirror and see the lines deepening on our faces, the hair turning silver. We watch our grandchildren grow up, and soon enough we will wave good-bye as they head off to college. We attend the ceremonies of passage: christenings, graduations, weddings, retirement parties, funerals too. We say farewell too many times.

I watched the dawn today. Before the sun appeared, the first sign of morning was a subtle brightening of the night sky, a softness at the edge of the world. In that early, tender light, the morning star sparkled brightly over the far hills. It was quiet. The world had not yet awakened to begin its noise and confusion, its hurry to work. I felt a catching of breath, the power of that "in-between" time, neither fully night nor day. It was the transitional pause, the place where we can be most aware of the change and flow of the universe. It was, I realized, the place where we live.

Morning Star

I would stop it, if I could,
this relentless wheel of change.
I want the universe
to stay still,
green, sweet, whole.
I watch my girl
race across the grass,
and I wish her to run, run
beyond time's hungry grasp,
where its fearsome curse
can etch no lines
nor bend those fresh limbs
with old years' weariness.
I would call back my dead,
keep their voices bright and young,
or just save this little day
for but a lingering moment,
balancing like an egg
that hasn't learned to topple.
But this day, this year, will go,
as others always have gone,
pulled into the great vortex
where good and bad both wait,
where snow and spring both come in time,
where death sings its puzzling song
and nothing stands for long.
We live in the mysterious light of passing,
whether dusk or dawn we cannot say.
But here, in-between what was
and what will be,
here in this dark and lightening place,
here in the fearsomeness
of time and change,
I see a morning star.

--Timothy Haut