Here by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Even as the snow was falling,
the birds in the branches
kept singing into morning,
easing their bright notes
into the thin gray spaces
between snowflakes.

There are days, imagine,
when the birds go unheard.
And it isn’t for lack of song—
the single note chirp
of sparrow, the bass of raven,
the chickadee’s hey swee-tee.

Some gifts come only
when we stay in one place,
come only when we are alone,
come only when we stop praying
to be somewhere else and instead
pray to be here.

Here

The snow is still falling in this part of the world, albeit more like rain at times, but the birds are beginning to make themselves heard in the mornings easing their bright notes / into the thin gray spaces / between snowflakes. This image delights me, combining both the visual and the auditory, the bright and the gray. The poet asks us to imagine that some days, the birds go unheard. / And it isn’t for lack of song. How often do we go about our day oblivious to the beauty of bird chirps, caws and the chickadee’s hey swee-tee?

She is sharing the easily forgotten wisdom that such gifts may only be noticed when we stay in one place, come only when we are alone, when we stop our constant moving, talking, doing, being so busy. These gifts of snowflakes and birdsong are only apparent when we stop praying / to be somewhere else and instead / pray to be here. Wherever ‘here’ is right now, not wishing for life to be other than it is, that is where some gifts come to us, if we can just be in the moment. Listen, can you hear the music the birds are singing to us?