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
Mesmerized
In the burning blue blaze of the beeches.
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