In the words of my favorite poet, “To live in this world / you must be able / to do three things: / to love what is mortal; / to hold it / against your bones knowing / your own life depends on it; / and, when the time comes to let it go, / to let it go.” (Excerpted from “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver).

My parents, Ormond and Dorothy Long (Orm and Dot), ushered me into this world and with great devotion shared the path of our journey here. In recent years, I am honored to have been walking them home—to the conclusion of their time in this realm.

During the past year, and within eight months of one another, each took their last steps, breathed their final breaths and lifted off like beautiful birds into freedom from their physical forms. They were married for 65 years.

I am deeply grateful for all they gave to me, especially for planting and nurturing the seeds of my lifelong interest in the natural world, as well as a love of words and images. It is largely due to these life-guiding gifts that you are reading this column.

For those raising children, or reacquainting loved ones or new friends with the wonders of the natural world—know that even small acts of attention and appreciation matter in ways you might not anticipate. Keep faith in the value of finding time to be outside with the people you care about. Laugh and love and make memories together. Such moments make life worth living.

Remembering
(For my mother, Dorothy Long)

A bluebird appeared out of nowhere
on this day of biting cold, so brisk and unforgiving.

It lit upon a weathered box, resting at the top of a long pole flanked
with folded skeletons of last season’s succulence.

Such a dab of extravagance—
that brave blue cloak of fluff, that russet breast so shy and tidy.

Suddenly, you were with me.
Along the faded flanks of fall we strode,
the mewping mallards bobbing on the river.

We were silent together,
watching the feathered blue being flash,
listening as it ruffled the brittle duff of the riverbank.

I was hoping you were thinking,
“This is my poet daughter, forever observing,
gathering in and sifting her world for ways to reveal wonder.”

I was thinking,
“Walk with me forever, beloved mother.
I have gathered your bluebird beauty into my heart,
and I sing it in my songs.”

At the Precipice
(For my father, Ormond Long)

Through this lens I am witness,
documenter of decline, observer of how it goes
toward the end of this road.

The one that’s been your song to sing,
your path to ponder, your prayer to pray against inevitability—
that final relinquishment of form, that dive into the void
where we meet what we were meant to know,
and gather what we need to continue.

Where will we interface again?
In the succulence of summer?
The flashing foliage of fall?
Deep freeze of ice glassed across the lake?
Pulsing green when spring awakes?

As you fly from this precipice
into the freedom you have earned,
I wish you the wonder of wings.