In the erie still
before the violent storm that’s
coming*, I sense all.
OR
*forecast
In the erie still
before the violent storm that’s
coming*, I sense all.
OR
*forecast
Deeply immersed
in the morning
rhythm of the woods,
I didn’t need
the sun to greet me.
Still, when Sol
popped his head out
from behind the rain clouds,
I was grateful
and gave him
a “Good Morning!” wave.
The green of Spring got
poisoned. Now it looks brown, dead
like everything else.
How many songbirds/
get sacrificed so we have
no vermin? Balance!
OR
How many songbirds/
must die so we have no mice?
Feral cat balance.
What if the trees deep/
in the woods miss us as much/
as we’re missing them?
Back Story:
The other day I was walking through the woods at Spirit Tree Farms, and I felt like I should spend some time at the base of The Old Woman of the Woods, “our” pre-Civil War giant oak tree. As I was feeling her bark, connecting with her, I felt a deep melancholy, a sense of longing, a sense of missing her. I wondered why I’d stayed away from connecting with her, and Nature, and God’s creations, for so long.
Suddenly, I was away that the feeling was mutual. It was almost as if she whispered “Hello, Boy. Welcome back. I’ve missed you. I’ve been lonely for you.”
I’d never thought of that concept before, that maybe the trees miss us! That thought inspired this haiku.
When shouting and rage,
not birdsong, start your day, you’ll
feel tense ’til you change.
Backstory: This morning I got up early to enjoy the sunrise and the birdsong greeting the day. Suddenly, from another part of the house, I heard a video or news report. The audio was full of commentators shreaking and yelling. I felt myself tense up immediately, and even when the broadcast was shut off, I still felt tense and resentful the rest of the morning.
Why am I here? Why
am I – we set on this land?
I know, yet don’t do.
When you spill whole corn/
o’er the kitchen floor, at least/
you can know it’s clean.
Upon reading Calming the Wilderness, riffing.
It feels strange to,
at last, again,
peel back the flap of another
large, manilla envelope.
Departure
Decades past,
the first one from her
contained guidance,
wisdom,
and introduction
to an unfamiliar,
yet exciting and welcome,
urban life.
I was brought in,
feted,
playing with the Big D
boys and girls now,
uncertain,
wrapped in a glass and steel
citadel
along a Northwest Expressway,
(long before I settled in a
specific Northwest expressway.)
She, always smiling,
eyes shining,
always kind,
giving wisdom,
guiding me through
the intracacies of even higher
las places I yearned to be.
Voyage
Then, I left.
What a long, strange trip!
Touching base with her
actually rarely,
yet constantly mentally,
as though she were
some reality Ebenezer,
not the man,
but the touch stone.
Return
Now we reconnect,
after our journeys took us
far and away,
and we each escaped
that cold urbanity
(once more, she teaches!),
to find our home,
our rest,
our real core sacred selves.
From the second envelope
slides black and white wisdom
about She who I love
so dearly,
and who she now,
clearly,
loves
and understands
at least as equally
as I.
Thumbing the pages,
gazing at letters, symbols:
A strange feeling
of recognition,
joy,
and gratitude.
The voice is so familiar,
with sense of connection.
My heart!
My soul!
My spirit!
swells,
and tears well
up and out
as I read of
Nature observations
and insights,
and wisdom,
and feelings,
hersyetmine.
Thousands of miles
and dozens of years
apart,
we’re even using
the same words,
receiving the same
inspiration,
talking to messengers
sent from the sky,
forests,
plains,
mountains:
Birds,
plants,
animals,
stars,
water,
wind,
Earth,
Heaven.
I’m curious if she,
as once,
is now again as connected
to Saint Francis
as I am.
All creatures….
I shake my head
in wonder
and amazement.
Such similarites!
I yearn to see
her portal,
Sangre de Cristo
and Land of Enchantment,
and hope to let her
experience ours,
Spirit Tree
and vortex folds
along the Chickamauga.
Thought:
Perhaps,
through words,
we are connecting
and connected.
The Source is the same,
whether in desert,
on mountain or plain,
through creeks and fields,
grasslands, forests,
or places I can’t yet pronounce.
I’m grateful
and moved beyond words
(and yet, here they are!)
for the truths
and her gift(s)
that this manilla envelope
revealed.
==========
For your own copy of the book of Nature observation poetry that prompted this piece, click: Annemarie Marek’s Calming the Wilderness.
An Instagram post: “She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is Doing, [writes Bokonon]” #Kurtvonnegut #catscradle
My retort:
To see, in Nature,
God’s Hand, is high gratitude*.
To understand? Grace.
OR
*just means you’re grateful.