A last leaf freshly fallen from a sycamore,
lies on the ground in the woods in the morning,
by a river with cottonwood and hickory,
my sleeves catch on greenbriar,
my fingers feel cold,
dead branches break under my feet,
I’m somewhere between real and dreams,
walking where I am, waiting for where I want to be,
content with discontent for the time,
embraced by a wintery wild,
in the woods with warmth in my heart.
Away,
To where I have the world all to myself,
With a wind of grace and a sun of gold,
Where grass flows and the creek glows
Where my spirit can climb,
And fleeting moments turn into time.
Little fire in the hills, February chills,
lying on the ground, looking at little flames,
listening to the sound,
the sun from where I lie already low in the sky,
seems to hover above my cover,
behind a hedge of wild plum,
geese fly over heading for the lake,
I don’t know where they are coming from,
my mood is mellowed by sun’s light in the grass,
feels to me like a season has begun to pass,
only the slightest breeze stirs,
the life in the prairie under my belly purrs,
at age sixty-two I wonder when I will get old,
as the little fire dies and I feel the cold,
I leave my little fire and walk up a hill,
I could say my winter season has begun, but today,
I walk the hills, still.
Sitting in a broom weed patch with cockleburs just below my toes. Indiangrass valley opens wide to my right. The wind is at my back, chilly, but not cold. Silence resounds, reality abounds, gratefulness resides. I am grateful for this land that is open to the public, grateful for a place to sit in nature’s quiet. The sun has come out. This has become a favorite stop spot. Just sitting here is enough for now. Just saw a whitetail buck. I am alone. I hear crickets. Big blustem and Indiangrass seedheads abound. I collected some. I find it kind of amazing I have this natural area all to myself. I always do. I may not be in Colorado but I am in a place I love. Grass is tall, winter tan color. I am feeling One Biota. Feel the beauty here, feel the prairie, the grass, the sun, the wind, the rocks, the geese, and hawks. Now I sit in Spring Valley. The spring is running but does not come out the pipe anymore. Now I am walking across the top. I see the valley home, I know the valley home. I stop to look at rocks. This thought comes: you’ll never know what you didn’t find, that’s what keeps me looking.
When winter is winter
The lakes freeze flat
The flakes fall fat
And the wind whips white
As geese make haste on their southern flight
Again, out in these silent hills in winter. Burning hedge sticks and a bit of prairie grass and willow, smoke rises and dissipates into the gray sky with low clouds. The wind stirs the flames. I feel the heat on my feet. A small fire, but just enough to warm me on a cold January day. I’m thinking ancient times, people of ancient times looking at these same hills I look at now, sitting on this same rock I sit on now. I look up through thorny branches to a whitish gray cloudy sky, smoke from the fire in my eye, an ancient activity, making a fire and I wonder, will there come a time when my time will be considered ancient? Fire dying out now, I’m letting it go out, turns into a small pile of ash among the rocks, as will I, in my time.
Under a winter’s sun,
yet, snowflakes still float, down to earth’s frozen coat,
flakes in flight, dark branches covered in white,
once again snow comes swarming, by a winter’s fire warming,
takes me back in my mind, to another time,
in a winter’s cold, a jay’s cry, white and blue in the sky,
tracks in the snow, only I know,
when I was much younger and fighting hunger,
a heart naïve and tender, or so I remember, finding fear, a tear,
it seems like I was along a winter’s stream, as if in a winter’s dream,
a winter’s memory of when I almost gave up, before I had begun.
Seven Geese Rise
Seven geese rise, I lift my eyes,
and watch them fly into a bright blue sky,
then I run, into a rising sun,
down a deer path through trees,
to a bluff with a wonder of a breeze,
and sit,
where the creek makes a curve,
not to think, just observe,
and listen,
as ripples in the sunlight glisten.
Fallen Leaves
Sitting on a log as one at a time leaves drift down,
Then many fall at once, yellow leaves falling through a blue sky,
They make a sound as they land, kind of a soft crackling,
I walk down to the river and the leaves are floating on the surface,
Many are falling around me as I walk,
Fallen leaves floating on the river, fallen leaves on the log where I sat,
In a wild woodland leaves fall to earth,
We all fall to earth in time
A Bend In A Snowy Creek
At a bend in a snowy creek,
I stop and ask the question, can we be more?
Up ahead after life’s next bend, after the sign in the road,
beyond my plan to sit by a fire at this trail’s end,
warming my fingers with flames fighting the dampness in the wood,
taking time to sit with the trees catching the sun’s light,
will I answer that question then?
Or will I just sit waiting for the snow to melt,
by a bend in a snowy creek?
Wapatanga Wilds 