#81 A WOMAN'S BRIEFS -- DECEMBER

They are there in the sky, yes they are – Neptune, Saturn, and earth’s gibbous moon. Only, I live in the Pacific Northwest, and these things are now below the horizon. Jupiter is still “up,” presently visiting the Gemini twins. Big, bright, and beautiful it is, but I live in the Pacific Northwest where cloying clouds cover nearly every aspect of the sky. It’s a lot like ‘calm.’ It’s present, but we don’t see much of it in December.

So I turned on the oven at 0’dark thirty, and baked a loaf of Japanese Sourdough Milk bread. By seven o’clock we can cut into it.

 Stars formed first, you know. Planets (and we live on one) got thrown together from leftover gas and star dust. But space welcomed the newcomers. Then, earth welcomed us. What a relief.

It's not even officially winter but the temperature in Gig Harbor, Washington pressed down to 33° during last night, daring my balcony avocado trees to survive so far from their native land. They are so like planets, or immigrants to our land. The two avocado seeds planted seven years ago hailed from god only knows where – Australia? Mexico? Peru? We ate the fruit. I buried the rooted seeds. I’ve tended them. I’ve fought the things that wished their leaves harm. I’ve brought them in during freezing temperatures, they in their heavy pots, and reaching now past five feet. If all goes well, in another year they may bear fruit. They already bring beauty, and a resting place for visiting birds.

It's that kind of December morning. It will be that kind of month if I allow it. I’m reaching for calm. I think I’ll spent the month sending you some poems. December seems to deserve our being distracted from screens, and sarcasm, and sale slogans.

Here’s one for today. A bit of whimsy. I began this poem in 1970. I finished it last week.

Words That Whistle                                                                          

I think that I shall write a poem

I think that’s what I’ll do.

A poem that whistles words so well

They pierce the mind straight through.

Tin-flute tunes find formless feelings

Hidden in the heart

Quite undescribed, quite well-denied

Till whistled words reveal them.

Feet and meters, stress and rhyme,

A poem’s magic measures time

To burrow deep,

To search and find,

To whistle up some peace of mind.

And since that seems to be the case

I think I’ll write that poem.

                                    Barbara Roberts Pine

                                    November 20, ‘25