As winter deepens, I offer an invitational poem and writing prompt to explore reading and writing poetry as a sanctuary for the spirit.
For me, reading poetry is a doorway into a sacred pause. And writing poetry is more about the process than the end product. It’s about expression, not expectation. Writing poetry is listening, tuning in, and offering reverence to what I notice and discover.
Now, on to the poem…
Wintering Spirit
By Stacey Hayes
Pause—to notice the cardinal resting in the giving holly,
sheltering herself from winter’s wind.
Listen to the muted hymn of the White-throated Sparrow,
rising from the backyard thickets.
Watch the squirrels chasing each other, protecting their stashes of seeds,
sustenance for today and the days to come.
Inhale—the crisp arctic air as the cold front blows from the north,
filling your lungs with the breath of life,
filling your spirit with clarity.
Open yourself to whatever may be unfolding in this moment,
both within you and around you.
Offer yourself compassion as winter ages
and as spirit settles into sacred stillness.
This is a variation of a poem I wrote at the turning of the new year. Reflecting back on it as February begins to unfold, I find that its truths still resonate. The poem calls forth the rhythms of the immediate landscape and reminds us of simple practices that help us tune into what our spirits may be longing for. It is a poem of place and a poem of presence.
Even if you don’t think of yourself as a writer or poetry person, consider creating a poem using the words below to begin each line—honoring your own observations and quiet wisdom.
Pause…
Listen…
Watch…
Inhale…
Open…
Offer…
May you welcome the solace of the natural world.
May you welcome the sanctuary of your own words.
Wintering Mountain Mint against a backdrop of sleet and snow— January 2026, Durham, NC
Here we are as summer wanes. Last September I wrote about this being a month of transitions. And as seasonal rhythms remind us — with their reassuring and predictable patterns — this theme has emerged again.
Transition times are an opportunity to honor and cherish the gifts of the passing season as we anticipate the graces to come. Paging back through my journal, I note the gifts of summer—the first sighting of fireflies, the increased activity of Eastern Cottontails, and the pollinators in full force, especially on the mountain mint and bee balm. I also noted how summer calls my spirit both to play and deep rest.
These were documented in what I call a list of “noticings.” My personality by nature longs for lists—metaphorical containers that hold “to dos,” groceries to be purchased, homeschool tasks, and books to check out from the library. These practical lists help me to feel not only organized but rooted. I feel sort of lost without them.
The most nourishing type of list for me, though, is one that records the moments that stand out in both my inner and outer landscapes. These “glimmers” are simple moments of joy and peace that I encounter in the small wonders around (and within) me. My journal is filled with these. When I cannot muster the creative energy or time to write proper prose, I start with a list.
This practice stirs my creativity and deepens my appreciation for the glimmers in day-to-day life. My lists of “noticings” have become a form of meditation and contemplative practice. They are collections of observations, wonder, and insights that I can return to again and again. It is a gift to page back through my journals and be reminded of glimmers from previous seasons and years.
My most recent list includes:
~ The hummingbird has been spending more time at the feeder preparing for fall migration.
~ Subtle yellow hues on the elm tree
~ Waning daylight
~ Birds still molting (Carolina wren is missing a tail feather)
~ Goldenrod: a symbol of the seasonal transition as it leans into autumn, offering its beauty and sustenance. A bridge between seasons. A keystone species.
~ I am slowly coming out of a fallow creative season. A necessary time of waiting and listening to hear what rises and unfolds.
These lists have no rules; there are no “to do’s.” They are unassuming. They are whatever is needed in the moment.
When woven together, these life-giving lists tell a story of how my inner and outer landscapes intertwine. They become more than the sum of their parts—they become a form of wholeness.
So when your well fills dry or you are longing for a sacred pause, consider making a list of “noticings.” Over time you may notice patterns or themes emerge. You will also become more in tune with subtle shifts in the seasons—and how those shifts are reflected within you.
Goldenrod Scientific name: Solidago (Latin for solidus, “to make whole”)
Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.” ~ E.B. White
I am an ordinary wonder seeker. I look for wonder out the window, in the yard, and on walks. Glancing out our front door last week, I spotted an unlikely visitor—a journeying monarch butterfly. This pilgrim found the butterfly weed we planted a few years ago – its buds ripening but not yet in bloom.
The monarch landed on each milkweed plant for a few seconds, drawn to them like bees to nectar. (Monarchs lay their eggs on milkweed.) It rode the breeze encircling the front yard, then vanished in a matter of minutes. A fleeting moment that easily could have been missed. An unexpected wonder on an ordinary day.
I got curious…Where did this butterfly’s journey originate? Where was it headed? And how in the world did it find this small patch of butterfly weed in our yard?
Later that afternoon, I went outside to look for eggs on the plant. Expecting (and hoping) to find eggs, I encountered another wonder – a small monarch caterpillar feasting on the leaves. Stooping down to watch something so small made the moment all the more wondrous. In its diminutiveness, I found expansiveness.
Wonder begets wonder. How long has the caterpillar been there? When were those eggs laid?
The monarch’s multigenerational migration is no small wonder. From Mexico to Canada in the spring, then back to Mexico to their wintering grounds, it can take up to four generations to make a one-way journey.
Like this passing monarch, many wonders are ephemeral. Wonder is sometimes about being in the right place at the right time. But if we practice a posture of expectancy, wonder is always under our noses, all around us. It can be the lens through which we see. A lens of openness, curiosity, and receptivity.
Wonder is a nod to the sacred in the every day. The budding perennial, the trill of the Towhee’s spring song, the veins in a heart-shaped leaf, the gradients of color in a small stone. The shapeshifting cloud above us. In a posture of wonder, we figuratively kneel offering our fullness to the fullness of what we are attending to.
Wonder is a point of connection – a meeting place of our inner and outer landscapes. In stepping outside and outside of ourselves, we often can be found.
Wonder is both a noun (as in a cause of astonishment, a marvel, a miracle) and a verb (as in to be curious about). In This is How a Robin Drinks, Joanna Brichetto reminds us that “Both kinds of wonder lead to connect, which leads to love, which leads to protect.”
The butterfly weed will soon be wearing bright orange hats. We are drawn to flowers for their beauty, but the greatest wonder of this flora is that of host. Its offering of sustenance. Its offering of a birthplace. Its offering of a temporary home. It is a micro ecosystem made for a pilgrimage—full of wonder.
Invitation: Giving Voice to Wonder
This stanza from Mary Oliver’s poem Sometimes is often quoted:
“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
Reflect on each line from Oliver’s “instructions” and journal about what each means for you.
~ Pay attention: In what ways are you particularly gifted to pay attention? Do you easily pick up on smells? Are you a keen observer of fine details? Do you often notice connections among things? Are you drawn to expansive landscapes such as the sky?
~ Be astonished: What often astonishes you or captures your attention? What calls you into a holy pause? How can you foster moments of wonder?
~ Tell about it: Be open to some of the special ways you can share about the wonder you encounter. Perhaps through photos, a painting, writing, or poetry? Maybe sharing in meaningful conversations or storytelling? Or through education?
As winter releases and spring unfolds, we enter an undeniably poetic season. Small wonders are emerging, and the landscape will dramatically shift over the coming weeks. The compact form of a poem can capture seasonal transitions, tiny wonders, sweeping landscapes, and everything in-between. They help us to pause. To remember. To honor.
I admit poetry hasn’t always been the type of writing I most turn to. But lately, the poetic form has opened up streams of compassion and expression within me. I find myself reaching for a little book of poems — an anthology filled with wonder — to pause and savor. I read poetry as both solace and inspiration. Not surprisingly, reading poetry has been proven to calm the nervous system and promote an overall sense of well-being. I’ve come to embrace poetry as a contemplative practice, and in this transitional season, I offer this poem.
On the Precipice of Spring
The brown thrasher plucks
a twig from the dense thicket.
A gesture of intention.
Then a subtle song of hope—
a rite to mark the passing
of a season and the
unfolding of another.
My eyes lock in wonder.
Ancestral wisdom,
seasonal rhythms
hold us, shape us,
soften us
as the wintered earth
softens into spring.
~ Stacey Hayes
I wrote this after watching two thrashers gather nest materials from the holly bush beside our front porch. Thrashers are notably shy, and I was able to witness this moment quietly from a window. I recently learned that they can sing over 1,000 songs, and like the mockingbird, they imitate other bird songs.
Poetic Invitations
~ Allow yourself to pause by savoring a poem. Let the words wash over you, soothe you, awaken you, inspire you.
~ Consider writing a poem to honor the passing season of winter — to honor its gifts and graces.
~ Find a poem that resonates with you and invite it to spark your writing. For example, you may want to choose a line from it to use as the first line of your poem.
Poets who Inspire
Deeply connected to the natural world, these two poets write with compassion and speak to me in this season of my life:
The trout lilies have emerged—sprinkled like confetti on the forest floor behind our home. These spring ephemerals are poetic wonders that symbolize hope and resilience for me. Read more about them here.
I live in North Carolina where winters are chilly but rarely white. They are gentler than in more northerly parts of the world. Yet still, I find myself turning inward, seeking cozy, and nourishing my body with healthful and fat-filled foods— like the Eastern cottontail rabbits who shelter in dense thickets around our shed. Like the squirrels who curl their tails on their backs like blankets. And like the songbirds who feast in the backyard.
During an unusual cold snap this past week, I worried about the birds as night temperatures dipped into the 20s. To my relief, the next morning they sang their subtle winter songs and visited our feeders as usual. Still here.
Their resilience offered reassurance, and I was reminded of my own capacity to endure. Birds have adapted to survive the cold—storing more fat, fluffing out their downy feathers, sometimes huddling together in roost houses, and shivering to create warmth. Their tiny bodies are adept at thermal regulation.
Winter exposes our vulnerabilities.
Winter reveals beauty and resilience.
The cold bareness of winter seems to expose our vulnerabilities—my increasingly creaky joints. My too-cold toes. My dry, oft cracked skin. My need for deep rest. And my occasional resistance to sitting with silence and stillness.
The bareness of winter also reveals beauty. The simple forms of the natural world, the silhouettes of trees. The peace inherent in the stillness. The beauty in our need for warmth, community, and communion with animals.
How may we endure a season of deep winter?
By embracing its cold beauty, call to rest, and invitation to gather warmth wherever it may be found. We can lean into our own adaptations taking cues from the wildlife around us, don our coziest socks, and allow the clarity of wintry air to fill our bodies and spirits. And as Anna Brones encourages us, we can “stare up and remind ourselves that in between the dark silhouettes of bare winter branches, there is so much light that shines through.”
For Reflection ~ What does “weathering winter” mean for you?
~ What beauty is revealed in the bareness of the season—the silhouettes of deciduous trees, the sparse landscapes?
~ How can you embrace your vulnerabilities with compassion, while gathering support and comfort for them?
A Wellness Practice
Go outside for a walk in the natural world (or look out your window). Be open to wonder and see what captures your attention. You may want to take a photo or write a few words of gratitude for the beauty you encounter. Embrace the alchemy of movement, wintry fresh air, and the bare trees of this quiet season.
A Quote to Inspire Your Creative or Writing Practice
“All winter long the brown bud will sleep. While the cold crow calls into the gray sky, while the wet leaves blacken and begin their return to earth, the brown bud is waiting for its true self to unfold; a beginning that in sleep has already begun.”
If you’ve been following my work for awhile, you’ve likely noticed that “small wonders” is a theme I return to again and again. The simple gifts of the natural world never cease to delight. I hope to focus on these life giving gifts during this traditionally busy month. To slow down and reflect amidst a time of preparation—both for the advent of winter and Christmas. Alongside my “to do” lists, the practice of embracing nature’s simple gifts guides and grounds me. And fosters a sense of wonder.
As the trees are nearly bare, it may seem challenging to find small wonders in nature. But with a little attention and close observation in our backyards and local surroundings, they can be discovered. The colder, darker season offers many gifts—ripe holly berries, fragrant evergreens, a patch of soft moss, sparkling Jack Frost, and wintering birds.
Pictured above are the blue “berries” of the Eastern Red Cedar, a native juniper tree. The festive berries are actually small cones—tiny packages with nutritious seeds inside. As an important winter food source, they fill the bellies of beloved birds and remind us that each season provides sustenance for body and spirit.
May nature’s simple gifts nourish you in the days to come.
The past few weeks, I’ve noticed the process of molting in the bird world. The Cardinal shedding his head feathers. The Carolina Wren hopping around without a tail feather. And all sorts of fledglings born earlier this summer growing in their adult feathers.
Stubby. Shaggy. Raggedy.
These are not the first words that usually come to mind when thinking about songbirds. They look awkward and not quite like themselves, yet, they are exactly what they need to be in this season. They are perfectly imperfect.
Molting is a process they can’t control. It’s governed by circadian rhythms, the changing light, and the turning of seasons. Molting is a season of vulnerability for birds. Feathers are used not only for flight but for camouflage, insulation, sun protection, swimming, and making sounds. Birds take care as best they can during this time—conserving their energy to grow new feathers, eating more protein, and seeking shelter. Though arduous, molting is a regenerative natural rhythm that prepares birds for what’s to come—be it migration or colder weather.
Molt stems from the Old English mutian meaning to change.
I often think of September as an in-between season. A time of change and transition. Routines and rhythms begin to shift. Our minds, hearts, and bodies begin to adapt to seasonal changes. As my own feathers feel a bit weathered and worn, I’m reminded that letting go of what no longer resonates with my values or priorities makes space for new growth and opportunities. Midlife (or whatever life season you may be in) is an opportune time to embrace the wisdom embodied in cycles of release and renewal — as autumn will soon remind us in a myriad of ways.
In the meantime, we can take our cues from birds and nourish ourselves in body and spirit during times of transition. Making space to rest and restore, releasing what no longer serves us. Because molting, like most seasonal rhythms, can guide us and point us toward hope.
“I watch the bald Cardinals feeding their fledglings, and I know they feel awful. I remind myself of what I cannot remind them–that raggedness is just the first step toward a new season of flight.”
~ Margaret Renkl, The Comfort of Crows
for reflection
You may want to use these questions as writing prompts for journaling or perhaps just to ponder while watching birds.
~ How may I meet my own “molting” process with compassion, gentleness, and patience?
~ What wisdom may I discover in cycles of release and renewal?
ways to support molting and migrating birds
~ Offer protein-rich foods such as seeds and suet.
~ Hang roost houses as the nights become cooler.
~ Turn off unnecessary lights, especially between 10pm-6am as these can disorient birds migrating at night.
I often lie half awake at dawn, listening to the chorus outside my window. These are sounds of comfort, reassurance, and beauty. My heart is grateful for each and every feathered being with both their individual signature voices and their collective symphony. Spring is undeniably a musical season. Birdsong crescendos as we approach the fullness of nesting season. And the dawn chorus heralds our own spring awakenings.
Birdsong awakens me to the gift of listening and the gift of being heard.
My son recently made a “soundscape map.” With a circle representing himself in the middle of the page, he sat outside and listened. First, he noticed the wind rustling through pine needles and the young leaves on the deciduous trees. Squiggly lines were drawn in the upper right of the page to denote wind. The drone of construction vehicles in the distance was marked in the bottom left corner by jagged lines. After listening more deeply, he enthusiastically drew circles around and around his own inner circle announcing, “The birds are singing all around me.”
Birdsong can easily become background noise that we are unaware of or desensitized to. Or, it may be muffled by soundproof walls, noise pollution, or our own racing thoughts. Not to mention that many songbird populations are declining, along with their songs. For birds, singing is purposeful work—to claim and defend their territories and to attract mates with hopes of continuing their songs.
Both human experience and scientific research tell us that listening to birdsong, especially in your local habitat, calms the nervous system. We are grounded in our senses while becoming more connected to the natural world. We become more rooted to our local landscapes as we cultivate a sense of belonging. When I hear the familiar chewy, chewy, chewy of the Carolina Wren perched on the deck post, the distinctively spring purty, purty, purty of the Northern Cardinal in the tree branches, and the trilled drink your tea! of the Towhee from the underbrush of the azaleas, I know I am home.
Hearing is a sense. Listening is a matter of attention.
I’ve noticed that there are different qualities of my own listening in the span of an hour. As a trained therapist and someone with high sensitivity, I at times offer an empathetic ear, which requires deep, close listening. There is a quiet listening when attuning to my inner voice and intuition. And there is often a distracted brand of listening when I am multitasking, tired, or overstimulated.
Attuning to birdsong can be a simple, contemplative practice that helps us to slow down, be present, and offer our attention with ease. When I listen to birds, I attend without strain or striving. I am both energized and relaxed simultaneously. Tuning into birdsong also helps me to be more attuned to seasonal rhythms as I note how those songs change throughout the weeks, months, and seasons. I have been savoring the whistling song of the White Throated Sparrow who has wintered here— knowing it will migrate north any day now for nesting season. By listening, we honor the wonders around us.
an invitation
My invitation this month is simple: to listen. To let the expansive songs of our feathered friends call out to you. Soothe you. And move you. Allow their songs to embrace you as they encircled my son on that windy spring morning.
Have you ever thought about what captures your attention? What you organically tend to notice on a day-to-day basis? Some people are naturally wired to see the big picture, but I’ve always had a penchant to see the small things. To notice the subtle expressions in someone’s face or slight shift in tone of voice. And the more I pay attention not only to my human counterparts but to the natural world around me, my attention to detail continues to get fine tuned season after season.
This time of year—that micro season of not feeling like winter yet not quite spring—there are many small wonders appearing. And lately, the trout lilies have been popping up in the woods behind our house, peeking out from the leaf litter. They have captured my heart and imagination. I’ve been visiting them at different times during the day this past week. These spring ephemerals won’t be around very long, so I must enjoy their company for this brief window before the leaves begin to form on the trees.
I noticed that their petals (tepals to be scientifically correct) were in different positions at various times of the day. And I discovered a pattern—they open at dawn and close at dusk following the natural rhythms of the rising and setting of the sun. Embracing the sun‘s warmth during the day and closing in a self embrace at night. It was as if their petals were unfolding in a yoga sun salutation at dawn and closing in a posture of prayer at dusk. The native little lilies, named after Brook Trout, are like dancing fairies on the forest floor.
As I spent more time with the trout lilies I recognized they are full of paradoxes. While their seasonal life cycles are very brief, their colonies can be hundreds of years old. Their delicacy coexists with their strength and determination as their slight stems push through the layers of leaves—sometimes grabbing hold of a leaf on their way up.
They are ethereal in their beauty, seemingly not of this earth, yet close to ground rising up from fertile soil. Each flower miniature, while their communities are vast.
At first glance, a small wonder’s beauty or novelty may capture your heart and attention. But with a deeper exploration and spending more time with it, you may become aware of its layers, intricacies, and sometimes paradoxes. This art of noticing, this deep attention, is one way that nature can help us to slow down and create spaciousness within. In offering our presence to the small wonders we are nourished and connected to a soulful ecosystem.
an invitation
Often used in nature journaling, the prompts below are a simple, yet profound way to explore the art of noticing and to cultivate intimacy with the small wonders around you. Take a walk or just go outside and see what shimmers and shines for you. Then sit with that for awhile and think about (or write if you wish) the following:
I notice…
I wonder…
It reminds me of…
a blessing
May the art of noticing the small wonders invite us to cherish the mini miracles in the every day.
May the small wonders remind us of our own gifts. Of what sparkles within.
May the small wonders bring us back to our sense of belonging — illuminating our part in this soulful ecosystem.
“If you will stay close to nature, to its simplicity, to the small things hardly noticeable, those things can unexpectedly become great and immeasurable.”
