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The Lumberjack Trail to Beechwood

Filtered light through hardwoods,

The humming of late afternoon in Autumn,

Wind stirs the branches of the bowing beech

And I ponder this burning aspiration

to capture the moment of

The old trail, never far off course,

Veering in perpendicular shadow with

Undergrown worry,

The old wolf oak is but a stump

amidst the damp grassy path,

And its limbs await the lumberyards.

I've known every corner of the solidago field,

The nodding nettle, teetering vulture,

Winterberry, lamb's ear, blackberry thorn,

Fallen white pine, the owl forlorn,

And all of New England's asters seem to agree

That when the air stirs under the cool whim of impulse

There is never a fairer time.

Where the jay brings in the blue day

And the foxtail hay seems to sway

Amongst the clovers as they sit at bay

Quietly watching the clouds drift away

And I make sure to sing, dance, laugh, and play

Skip on my way to the woodhouse to pray

With applejack brandy

And cold nose a snifflin',

The crows in the cornfield,

The lumberjacks chipping.

I'll make my way down this old weathered path

To the top of a hill where wildness once laughed,

And sit on a carpet of fern


In the burning blue blaze of the beeches.

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