breeze

 i’m sitting on sun-dappled deck 

and breathing in the breeze

as birds are flitting  up and down

and hiding in the trees.

the hummingbird holds still in space -

vibrating with his all

while titmice and nuthatches take their share 

(but don’t take all!)

i’m deciding what to do

now that my path has changed direction

from instructing and enjoying youth

to old age and reflection.

i look into these glowing woods

 this morning and I see

a path into their secrets

-and that path-

it beckons me.

Sweat

The summer slips out of my pores and into feelings of despair

as insects and the birds still sing in humid soupy air.

I attempt to work, to do, and fight the feelings yet again

of my failure of accomplishment before the Summer's end.

sacrifice

My heart told me to strike the nail into my palm and thus impale my hand onto the center of the freshly severed stump.

The poplar was a century tall until my word command it fall and flop into the field that rings the cemetery rocks and things that once were precious to the ones who left stacked stones, iron tools and bones.

But my head decided, “No. This psychotic guilt shall go into the pocket brain abode that keeps such danger safely stowed.”

The mighty trees that used to be have been blown to the ground for me to rake and gouge, and profit take from the resulting mess I make.

But now, the Logger, he must have a sweeter cause to harvest horizontal logs and so I give him several of these tall and healthy mighty trees.

(It seems he cannot understand the value placed upon the land that does not register in cash but an aesthetic beauty stash.)

But I, in haste to heal the land, impatient to let Nature’s hand have years to dampen wood to dirt, let violent ripping of the saws and crushing tires and dragger jaws chew the life from leaf loam litter to expose the bare and bitter under-layers of lifeless soils.

The hammer falls. 

My heart recoils.

salvage

massive trees are strewn about
the twisted wood
and now I doubt
my motives
in the
plan I
made
to have
the
fallen
trees
relayed
from the
old sod
that holds
their roots
to trucks and saws by men in boots as ruddy as their solemn faces, men who seem to see no grace in timber stands except for signs of dollars gained by clearing vines and limbs from logs of heartwood hard and split and driven miles and miles away and given to the mill for boards and pulp. 
I sign, I sigh, and cry and gulp.

Wind

came up quick in rapid pace
and then blew down
in fractal grace
a power
so much
more
than
these
aged
mighty
many
trees
with roots
as soggy as the sod
that rice fed oxen often trod.

I thought that I might make a trail through ancient woods that would prevail in beauty deeper than my death, but now I see how Nature takes the Life from here just to remake a field of dreams that only She in random vision will let Be.

some of the older oaks

are still holding to their leaves.

Caps are popping

up a bit

in between the leaves.