I don’t often wax poetic, but some beautiful fall days and a chance to walk in the woods inspired me to put some words together in a non-narrative fashion, a sort of paean to the life God gives, one way among many of giving thanks …
The brook in our wood runs softly today,
no rush from the rain,
when high water shouts around the bends
and dark debris skates down a frothy path
to jamble the corners …
No. The brook runs quiet today, this fine fall day,
this earthy day of pin-wheeling leaves whispering down,
a strip-tease of trees and cast off couture
that blankets the ground and cloaks the still water
and snickers at unknowing dogs.
On days like this only seeps and springs feed the indolent flow,
the frog-high falls that tumble over braided roots
and push back the floating carpet so minnows can find their prey.
This is where the life is.
Here, in tannin-tinted pools where crayfish hide
and salamanders spawn,
where forest flies drum the golden air
and lay their larvae and feed the fish.
This is what life is,
splashing and silence,
sprout and fruit, rot and rebirth …
those who write about it differ in purpose and power
but not in the end.
This is how life is,
still water and restive rush,
joyful eddies and hopeful roots,
a current to ride or to fight or to change,
a quest in the blood of the earth.