Lessons on Leaf Lorn Logs

There were lessons

left on leaf-lorn logs

in lost languages

but leaning between the lines

he believed the Beloved

had begun a better

and necessary day

longing and belonging

for community and comfort

beneath and between

the Birch and the Beech

the Walnut and the Willow

and the grace-like story

of the understory

and the Moss and the Maple leaves

and all the wildland woods

had begun to tell a tale

of Winter's Rest

Growing Old

I heard John Burroughs

in the Autumn woods today

he said

“How beautifully leaves grow old.

How full of light and color are their last days.”

and I could not disagree

not if I wanted to

But after their light is dimmed

and after their color faded

Autumn leaves still grow old beautifully

becoming Winter leaves with

the common decency to leave

some of themselves behind

I hope to grow old like that

An Unnecessary Illusion

The snow covering and ice sprinkling

gave the illusion of a new world

fresh, undisturbed, untouched and unpolluted.

This was only an illusion, of course.

The pavement and dirt and grime

still lay there beneath the snow

the plastic and cans and detritus still lined the creek bed,

even though it was covered and made beautiful by the ice.

An illusion, but a pleasant one, just the same.

Taken the right way, it gives us license to imagine a better world

a more clean, pure, delightful and beautiful world.

At its very best, it might even inspire us to take up (or continue)

the struggle for a better day and a better world

one improved by our choices and actions

rather than being made worse.

Winter is Stepping Near

Winter is stepping nearer

colder days and bleaker

and dear Autumn is wearing thin

we feel tired and weaker

but less of day means

more of night

more of rest

less blinding light

more of comfort

at year's end

more time to gather

with family and friend

A Cousin to the Sycamore

When I travel by canoe, by bicycle, by crutch,

by foot or by wheelchair

I am part of this wide world

 

I am in and of and with the earth and

the earth with me.

 

I am a cousin to that sycamore

over yonder, at the river's edge

and part of that titmouse

dancing in her branches

I am part of that simpering stream that

empties into the river and

that ancient turtle

slipping beneath her rolling waters

 

I am part of those jackrabbits scattering from

them blackberry brambles

where that mockingbird sat

just minutes ago

before she flew away towards that stream

of which I am a part

 

We sometimes speak of "the Environment"

as if it were this

Thing

separate and apart from us

and us from it

but we're not

At least not until we choose to be so

I Hesitate to Bring This Up...

At the confluence of the Beargrass and the Ohio

where a wild winter wind

blows the leaves back up the oak tree

where the mallard and his mate huddle

beneath a fallen sycamore

where eddies swirl and dark waves

kiss the shore goodbye

There are no addresses.

No street numbers to be marked on a map

and kept in a file cabinet at city hall

with a corresponding Owner’s name

Because there are no Owners.

There are no claimants on the water

as it rolls from creek to river to ocean

and back again.

And it surprised me today

as I thought about it

That no one had ever bought the Ohio outright.

 

Yet.

Life in Three Acts

There was a play staged

by a forest primeval

I had a bit part

I served as the stage manager

in a play within a play

put on for my own benefit

I was also the audience

I wrote the plot

which included a twist ending

which I did not see coming

turns out, I was not

the author of the play

after all, just a patsy

Life, in three acts

beginning with the denouement

they'll never see it coming