Tag: Autumn

ALL Saints

Fallen leaves carpet my path.
Caution, sharp curves ahead.
Tree limbs lock bare arms;
Distant ridges rise in view.
Blessed be the pause.

Placing my hands on
Sun-warmed outcropping,
I take in the strength  
Of ancient mountains 
Eroded over time. 
Blessed be the wise.

At the peak of an arduous climb
I lean against the rugged bark 
of an old growth tree, its
knotted wounds long healed.
Blessed be time.

Standing under an arch 
of Coniferous Evergreens,
I sight the late-blooming ferns,
Signs, promises, Presence. 
Winds shush the moment,
Blessed be peace.

Wonder Walk

Praise to you
Chilling Winds,
Gentle Rains,
Seasonal Sigh.

Earth’s scent of 
Crushed leaves
Trees preparing
For Time of rest.

Dressy orange,
Shimmering golds,
Red Maples
Making final bows.

Clouds gather,
Sun shuttered
Bare limbs 
Stretched in relief.

Two Hawks
Share the watch,
Careful to catch
Whatever moves.

Praise to you
Mountain glories,
Harvest hands,
Nature’s way.


Photo by Terri Cooper

First Sightings

A squirrel leaves me a walnut
sheathed in green velvet,
then leaps and weaves away
to sort and bury his acorns.

Acrobatic crows hang
on bottom limbs
of kousa dogwoods,
devouring red berries

Just as September returns
sycamores on lakeside avenue
create an arch of golden yellow,
a royal welcome.

Burnished red on dogwoods,
yellow carpets of walnut leaves,
coneflower seeds, drying fuchsia,
wilting lilac tree, caterpillars,

I feel a lift in the cool breeze;
sigh as shadows lengthen;

What return shall I make?

Wedding Trail

Summer weds autumn on this dense
forest trail; white wood asters line the
bridal path, candelabras of goldenrods,
red maple leaves scattered like rose petals
along the path,  sun struck mica glittering,
wedding  jewels. Through the laurel arch,
past the birch and poplar stands, witnesses
bearing boutonnieres of purple turtle heads,
bouquets of white snake root; a scent of
decay nourishes life unseen; breezes stir
nature’s memory, recalling the Cherokee
partnered with the land, grateful for this
hallowed Black Mountain. The South Toe River,
faithfully moving to its Source, carries our
vows to come this way once again.

20190908_112813

 

To Every Season

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
(Ecclesiastes 3:1, Pete Seeger 1950’s)

And all because the earth tilts a bit.

The truth as I know it is that while the turn of seasons is inevitable, nature has a contractual clause written in not-so fine print that says “subject to change”. Anticipated patterns can end in the unexpected. Visitors plan their trips to our ancient Pisgah Mountains and the Blue Ridge Parkway months ahead of fall’s scheduled arrival, hoping to catch the peak of a season landscaped in magnificent color. The season is sure to arrive, but nature’s rendering of color and the fullness of the leaf-bearing trees is dependent on rain, temperature, and winds.

This year the predictions of fall’s dramatic presentation have been cautious because of nature’s variables. When the fall calendar indicated the peak season should be arriving, the trees held back their spectacular showing. The ash and chestnut leaves began creating ground cover before the first cooling temperatures, while the red-toothed maples, and dogwoods, the divas of this fall’s fashion show, slowly began to provide the first peeks. Many of the yellows and gold held out for All Saints Day. I delight in whatever dabs of colors appear on nature’s canvas, while simultaneously pondering the reality that this grand presentation precedes nature being stripped to bare bones, creatures burrowing deeper, and birds migrating.

Today winds are pushing heavy gray clouds onto our mountains. Soon enough the clouds bring rain, the rain brings chill. Some bold leaves are holding tight, while plenty of limb-mates are letting go. I catch a view of a mighty oak in its orange blazer proclaiming “it’s not my turn”. When the sun’s performance is hidden behind this curtain, my thoughts take a turn towards the slow and reflective and I feel my world titling towards the moody. Befriending the day means looking for the unseen, unexpected revelation. Between yesterday and today the trees have been shaken and my horizon opens. I can now view the mountain ridges on three sides and give praise for the vision that will sustain me when this season departs. How About That!

fall mountains

 

Three Seasons for a Start

Another Winter’s hibernation, accepting
the weight of fallowed ground,
hallowed time of preparation, stirring
stews of possibilities; listening
for changes that could not come
fast enough; absence of light,
too much grey from the start.

~~~~~~~~~

Welcomed Sun springs on unsuspecting
days, delights drowsy waterlogged senses
with new greens, easter whites, lilies
lining the landscape with resurrection,
eager robins sitting curbside during
rainstorms waiting for earthworms
washed from freshly mulched lairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Summer storms its way in, drowning out
picnics and mountain hikes till lazy days
push up white clover fields; daisies
and cone flowers welcome butterflies,
crepe myrtle bloom with radiance; fireflies
spin like sparklers in the top of tall oaks,
faithful moon makes a showing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Standing still on a turning planet –
such an astonishing grand scheme.

crepe myrtle hathat

 

 

Weaving a Spider’s Tale

Fall Showing: Yellow mums, scarecrows with smiles,
pumpkins positioned at the welcoming corner of my lawn.
Two identical spiders with silken thread, spun protein,
tensile strength greater than my bones and half the
strength of steel, strategically placed for the fall showing,
one hanging by the front steps, the other on the back deck,
identical twins as far  as I can tell. Uninvited guests.

From my memory template of scary spiders, Arachnids that catch
all the attention in the news, there’s the hobo, the wolf and its
oversized variant the tarantula, brown recluse, black widow,
and the orb with yellow stripes – the writing spider. Daddy said
that if this spider wrote a name on its web, the person was
doomed. Daddy also told me that Farmer McGreggor lived
across the railroad tracks near my house and if I ventured
in that direction I would suffer the same fate as Peter Rabbit,
I would be an unsuspecting fly caught in a spider’s web.

These rather ordinary house guests camping on my posts
wove their way into my days in an untidy, cob web fashion;
brown with a bit of a striped effect; in a species of 50,000
these are regarded simply as domestic house spiders.
Despite my love for E. B. White’s Charlotte Web and the itsy
bitsy spider who did not learn his lesson well, repeatedly
climbing the spout despite the warnings about rain,
I do have not a familial relationship with spiders.

 
Cool webs, threatening fangs and creepy legs.
My rocker becomes an observation post as the porch
dweller grows bolder with daytime appearance,
and bigger with the insect feasts. Much of the time
the acrobat curls into a ball, eight legs tucked tight,
swaying in mid-air, all head/mouthpiece, and abdomen,
until the invisible web quivers  and legs spread in every
direction; an unsuspecting prey is nabbed, stuck tight,
wrapped in silken thread. An occasional lucky wasp touches
the steely stickiness and escapes with a forceful thrust.
Then brown spider whispers dag nabit, – missed this time

Nights are growing colder, the food supply source diminishes
with the approach of  all-hallowed- eve. I grow faintly wistful
knowing that soon my house guests will complete their task,
leaving a nest-full of eggs, offspring to take over the world
when spring arrives once again, spiderlings instinctively
knowing how to survive the cold, finding crevices for shelter,
and warmth wrapped in their egg sacs. Not so scary then.

explore more at http://www.explorit.org/science/spider.html

spider guest