Acceptance
The tall oaks open doors I had closed
An awareness of beauty
An acceptance of change
An awakening of thought
smchisam-4/23/88
========================================================================== The Way of the Woods
---------------------------------------- THE WAY OF THE WOODS No elfin sprite am I, nor Puckish creature of the woods, but I can hear when the silver moon is talking with the water, and when I pass by the red-wing blackbird he sits still, watching me. As I walk along the water�s edge he follows me, his red crescents flashing startlingly as he flits from bus to bush. Here I feel at home, for I know each tree by name, and I reach up to feel their new leaves budding out in the spring; I know the cooling green canopy of summer, the amber and crimson leaves of autumn, and the chilled white stillness of winter. I have seen rhododendrons growing higher than my head, and have walked where the wood violets tickled my bare toes. I have heard the quail chortle to their young and I have seen the shy hare wiggling his pink nose as he hides just beyond the old dead tree stump. Yes, I know the way of the woods...but as I sit here surrounded by all this beauty I wonder... Will our grandchildren laugh at the quail's bobbing head and know the seasons of the trees? Will they sit in the shade of Grandfather Oak and delight in a brisk autumn breeze? Or will they see prairies where forests once stood; have no shelter from the summer's heat, no redbirds and blue jays against blue-white snow, no velvet moss for their feet? If the forests sounds are all drowned out by the shriek of too many saws our grandchildren will never know what a treasure a forest -- was.In a Redwood Forest
We are in a redwood forest just after dawn. The woodland halls are green and cool, and beneath the roof of sleeping leaves we tread quietly. The fog drifts silently through the ancient grove. We feel watched by the trees.
Softly stepping on the leafy sediment of seasons past, our pace has nothing to do with haste and everything to do with increased awareness...slowly, slowly...Look there! An illusion of deer glances our way! Already gone...
We dare to touch the deeply furrowed bark beneath fuzzy lichen; we absorb the spirit of the grove. Parasol mushrooms evoke images of fairies, talking caterpillars with hookahs, and very small girls named Alice.
The ferns here are magnificent! Knee-high lady ferns fan their winsome fronds for the valiant waist high and higher sword ferns. Winding our way through the bracken, we come upon a sparkling, miniature crystal palace, balanced precariously between curling fern fronds. A Michelangelo of a spider has worked an eternity to create this dewdrop encrusted splendor. Back at home, we would have nonchalently or revengefully swept it aside. Here in this enchanted dell, however, we carefully detour around it.
We have not been aware of the passage of time, but we are suddenly aware that the morning mists have withdrawn. Shafts of sunlight, seeking to hold communion with natures more concrete forms, streak into the ancient cathedral through stained glass windows of leaf, lichen and dew. The glowing rays illuminate the very air around us, and a feeling of warmth and reverence permeates the woods.
Our reverie is broken by the raucous call of a scrub jay. A flash of sapphire startles us, and draws our eyes heavenward after it. Dazzling streaks of sunlight form a lacy filigree in the treetops high over our heads. The gracious rays of the sun find their way through the canopy of leaves, around the stately trunks, to us mere mortals. We marvel at the shifting shadow patterns.
How can one place be so immense, yet hold such miniature marvels; be so capricious, yet feel so reverent; be so quiet, yet resound with ancient voices?
It is difficult to leave here.
Our last image of the redwoods, as we reluctantly leave, is as exquisite as the first...
a single sunbeam spotlights the lacy fronds of a maidenhair fern, bringing it into relief against a background of dark shadow. Then, like a mischievous spirit, the sunlight disappears again, leaving the ancient trees once again the nearest things to the gods.
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2-JUN-1996
Dawn in the forest
Dawn in the forest The only sound The rushing of water nearby. A majestic buck slowly circles, His golden coat catching streaks of sunlight, Then disappearing in the cool green shade Beneath the towering oaks and madrones. On a limb broken from a fallen oak Stops and freezes - a gray squirrel Its tail like the bark Gray-brown, furrowed, thick Hider of acorns. Beneath the deep structure of leaves Decomposing on the forest floor A fuzzy caterpillar works its way; Fallen off the tree, Looking for green for dinner. The predawn silence is shattered By a bird note As pure and as long As the waters of the falls upstream. ______________________________________Dance of Forest and Sky
Two are there.
He and she, sharing life.
Sky and Forest
Sharing life,
Gazing at blue sky and white cloud drifts
Letting their eyes linger on feathery deep green treetops
as they begin to dance
Swirling around
their feelings welling up... floating... rising ...
as they move in each others arms...
finding themselves rising up
among the cloudscapes...
curling wisps of mist chasing after them...
dancing among the floating canyons
and great rising filament mountains of white...
Forest, tracing Sky's cheek and hair with her fingers,
watching them glow under this light,
his eyes sparkling like river water...
She gratefully drowns in them, and...
He suddenly surrounds her with misty white cloud
like a soft woolen shawl and
then races up a cloudbank with her...
then turns... and sits down with her...
side by side... holding her hand...
and whooooshhhhhh..... down they go....
sliding down a cloud chute together...
laughing breathlessly!...
spinning down into a bowl of cloudstuff and
coming to a stop...
rising and falling gently,
on the buoyant white surface...
as if they are on a great soft white linen sheet...
the corners lifting and falling...
the surface rippling and lifting and settling
laying back together in its soft embrace...
looking up at higher cloudbanks floating past above them...
Sky rolls over and digs into the cloud with his hands...
scooping it away...
creating a window to look through...
and companionably reaches over, and draws her closer...
her elfin forest face tickling close to his...
to gaze down through the white window frame...
to the dappled green rolling hillsides below...
Forest smiles, inhaling the sweet cloud-air,
and gazes down to a patchwork of trees and green hills
and scattered roan mustangs and black and white llamas,
cloud shadows accenting this and that as they drift silently by,
wisps of white cloud obscuring scenes momentarily,
sunlight spread like a cozy blanket on the mountainsides.
The cloud shadows...
racing now up and over the tops of the rolling hillsides
like a cresting herd of wild stallions...
Forest and Sky smile at each other
as the lead stallion roars up on his hind feet,
forming a tall thundercloud like a cumulous on the firmament.
Sky blinks... as sunlight glints
reflected off the crystalline blue depths
of a cradled mountain lake...
surrounded by pine forest shores,
then turning, looking into her eyes, sees the same reflected.
The mists stretch and thin and swirl up around them...
shafts of sunlight slanting down through them...
and suddenly...
they find themselves touching solid earth again...
as the clouds lift on renewed gusts and sail away...
leaving them standing together in the middle of an alpine
wildflower meadow...
They watch the white clouds drift into the distance...
like billowing sailing ships on a sea of crystal liquid blue...
Forest inhales deeply,
gathering scents of pine and fir and waterfall and rock
and prairie grass and wildflowers and wood and
(leaning into his shoulder) breezes
which bring the memories of soft warm cotton and leather.
Sky wraps his arms around her...
breathing her in, too...
pine and the fir and the rich earth and leaves...
and a vanilla blossom that is moving
in the soft breezes gentling over it,
and he gazes upon the blossom,
and sees warm sunlight,
and so many textures glowing from deep within...
And as the sun leaves them and the moonlight surrounds them,
once again, they dance...
between old wooden-planked step-resounding,
gray-brown bridge over
blue green swirling reflecting riverwaters,
and tall, solid gray granite rugged cliffs
whose spirits give the gift of water,
white frothy clear cascading water down its sides,
to form the river,
to feed the grasses and flowers,
and their hearts...
and thus will they always dance...
the Forest and the Sky.
gift of the creek
and the birds
often crushed beneath the weight
of mammal feet,
you secure the terra firma
and secure me to this place
with your forty shades of green
and the wildflowers hidden
in your Lilliputian forests.
Old Oak, sharing the earth with me
your roots sunk into the alluvial soil
where generations of my People
have given you names
my eyes and hands caress the weathered, checkered
gray brown of your bark
and delight in the swelling of your new buds
testament to another spring
even as the fairy lace lichen
drips from your ancient bones
Butterflies hover over the dark moist curling fronds of the bracken I as approach the log, the log I saw in my dreams. This log, this perfect log, long and large and pulsing with life, spans the river with its bubbling springs. I place two hands firmly on the log, swing my leg over and around, and straddle it, feeling its reverberations as it comes back up to meet me. I play on the log, feeling its warmth, its life. A thickened branch arches up, a perfect place to grasp, with its droplet of moisture glistening in the moonlight. I know not how long I am there, for time stands still. I become one with the log. Then I tighten my legs briefly, readying myself. The world turns upside down, releases me, and I fall into the bubbling waters of the hot springs. 5/28/97 Under the AspensThe long arching branches of the aspens sway gently
-----
as I gaze at you, sleeping beneath their shade
late on this summer morning
As I watch with the wonder of a child
the lulling shifting shadows play on your face
and your clothing.
I move closer to where you are stretched out upon your back,
and I carefully lift your head and shoulders,
as gently as I can so not to wake you,
lowering them back to rest in the crossed legs of my lap.
Then I lean back against the white trunks,
Listening with a kind of quiet joy
to the sounds around me...
the soft soughing of the wind in the green canopy far above us,
the soothing rhythm of your breathing,
the gentle moving and almost unheard footfalls of a doe
in the glen between us and the creek.
I look out upon forest,
overcome by such a sense
of peace and love and connectedness
that I gently stroke your hair,
needing to be a part of the rhythm.
The scents of trees and growing things are carried on the wind,
and they call from near and far away and touch a place within.
I feel your hand reach up to gently clasp mine,
and catch the wonder in your eyes
as you awake to find me here
with you.
Glory Days
Crescent Redwoods 1999 - for my Tom
mingled with the smell of slightly salty sea air
as we climb ever higher
the place inundating our senses
reaching out to touch...
fuzzy green lichen
a green rainbow of moss on a gray boulder
the furrows and valleys of redwood bark
the rings on an ancient tree
the gently curving fronds of the bracken
the taste of trail mix
mid morning
as we stop off the trail
and cold fresh water
from our canteens
the air so soft it is like
a phantom kiss on the lips
and we taste of the sweetness of life...
and we listen and hear...
the sound of the seabirds over the ridge
the soft soughing of the winds somewhere near
our padded footsteps on the layers of mulch below
our own breathing
the beating of two exhilarated hearts
and we smell the sweet wood violets
and the rhododendrons
and the redwood heart
and the damp soil
and the sea
and we see
forest green
and blue sky so blue
as the morning mists withdraw
and we reach the crest
and find the blue-green waters of the Pacific
spread out before us like a gift
and we smile at each other
because we know that it is.
Autumn blaze
Glory days
fog creeping over a hill
Trees aglow, fire burns low
birdseed on the window sill
Raking leaves cleaning eaves
squirrels hoarding nuts
Chopping wood
Storing food
Avoiding rain-dug ruts
- Sun-drenched porch
trees like a torch
blazing in afternoon sun
Autumn days
aren't here to stay.
Treasure
every
one.
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soft gray mists
Nature Poetry Directory
fe-smc 2000