A Love Poem

For H.M.B.

One time, about half a century ago,
my best friend read me a poem
that her secret lover, a strong, sensitive man,
had penned for her. They had walked together,
she said, in the autumn woods earlier in the day.
I remember being astonished at the poignant
beauty of the words. The closing line,
“Aren’t oak leaves beautiful?” stuck with me
long after I’d forgotten the rest, except
for a mention of the Taj Mahal at its beginning.
Years later, I asked my friend if she,
by any chance, still had a copy of the piece.
She didn’t. But it doesn’t matter.
The feel of it returns to me every year
when oak leaves cover the ground.

Yesterday I thought of my friend
with affection as I walked through
heaps of newly fallen leaves, and I smiled
at one red oak leaf, the sun shining through it
as if it were a stained glass window.
She was like that, too, glowing,
letting the light pour through
her deep rich colors. She passed away,
I learned when I returned from my walk.
So tonight I wrote this poem for her.
I’ll think of you often, my friend, especially
in autumn, when the beautiful oak leaves fall.

Legends

If you were a shaman,
the old crow told me,
you would know what
this calligraphy means
the moment that you
set eyes on it.

My own interpretation,
he went on, is that the
ancient legend is true
that says elves collect
materials this time of year
for decorating the Festival
drums. You might have
heard that story before.

If you see a scattering
of pine needles on the
sawn trunk of a tree, noting
the colors and textures,
and think of all the stories
this one small patch
of ground might hold,
you are gifted and lucky.

That’s what the old crow
told me.

A November Evening

Late in the afternoon, I walked by the creek,
its waters clogged by fallen leaves.
I made cheesy beans for supper and ate a bowl
with a slice of freshly baked Italian bread.
I’m in my bedroom studio now
and just turned on the the heater.
The sun’s gone and the air has taken on a chill.

Tomorrow will bring rain and trail cold behind it
that will last for days. It’s good weather for holing up,
pulling on a fleece sweater and warm socks,
listening to podcasts, maybe watching a tear well up
over the mess of it all, hugging my pillows,
snuggling with the gaudy afghan that Evelyn crocheted.

Barely noticeable lyrics sing from behind a velvet curtain
on the back stage of my mind: “Just keep going; keep on going.
Jesus closer than my breath. Just keep going. Keep on going.”

Sometimes that’s the best you can do.
And that’s okay.

Mother Maple

I don’t know her name or species.
She doesn’t know mine either.
Neither of us cares.
She just stands there—sun, rain
sleet, snow—at the edge of the trail
that stage coaches traveled, all the way,
they tell me, from New York to Chicago
nearly two hundred years ago. She,
whom I address as “Mother Maple,”
has been there, on the east edge
of the south hill where she can catch
the sunrise, a long time, too.
I have known her for over three decades now,
and count it as a privilege held in high regard.
I remember an autumn when hundreds
of migrating starlings perched for a while
in her boughs and in the boughs of all
her neighbors, singing until you thought
the earth itself would rise up at the sound.
Today, her limbs are nearly bare.
Only slim garlands of her last red leaves
remain and a lone leaf here and there.
I nod to her, an appreciative salute,
as I turn toward my door, silently
wishing her sweet dreams, and promising
to check in with her from time to time,
no matter what winter brings.

Walking Through Fallen Leaves

By the end of the week, cold will set in.
These are the last warm days and much
remains to be done. Nevertheless,
I can’t resist the call of the woods.
I haven’t been to the pine grove in weeks,
and although the maples have shed their leaves,
the oaks remain. I can’t resist. I don’t even try.
Once I am there, my boots brushing through
heaps of leaves, I find myself back in childhood days,
when all along the bay, the men would make
great piles of fallen leaves on the sand at the waters edge.
And we children would dive atop them shrieking,
expecting them to be soft as pillows,
but of course they never were.
And when the men had finished their raking,
they set fire to hills of leaves, and the smoke
from the fires would billow and rise, riding
the south wind out to where the water met the sky.
At my feet, leathery oak leaves cover the ground,
tucking themselves around a fallen log, a young pine
adorned with fallen needles. I notice I am wearing
a soft smile, despite that slight air of sadness
that autumn often brings. I remember the fragrance
of burning leaves and inhale the scent of these woods.
I listen to the whispers of the leaves beneath my feet,
a once-a-year song. And in my heart, there is peace.

Balance

The days of light give way now
to the lengthening nights. At noon
the warmth of the sun yields
to gusts of cold wind. My eyes travel
up the trunks of two trees, one bright,
one lost in shadow. Between them,
the red leaves of a distant oak dance
in the autumn-blue sky.
My heart drinks in all of it, playing
its beat-pause, beat-pause rhythm.
As I turn to walk down the path
that will climb up the next hill,
my breath flows in, then out.
It’s all one tender song—the up and down,
the in and out, the shadow and the light,
each in perfect balance with the other.
At dusk, I watch a nearly full moon
rise in a clear dark sky as a lone cricket’s
song rides the evening’s silence.

Pheasants

A light rain, almost mist-like,
splattered the vacant side road that runs
from the highway into town, subduing
what remained of autumn’s colors.
The day was warm for November
and mild, and I breathed its fragrant air
through the window I had rolled down
a bit despite the rain. Daydreams
floated past as I drove, suddenly
interrupted by a quick movement
in the fallen leaves that lined the road.
Pheasants! I hadn’t seen one in years.
Ring-necks! The sight of their plumage
sent me back to the time when I
was four and my dad, a hunter,
carefully unrolled layers of newspaper,
revealing his bounty before my eyes
right there on the kitchen’s linoleum floor.
The iridescence of their colors
stunned me and mixed with the scent
of wet feathers and blood.
My dad let me touch me them.
Such magnificent birds!
Today, two pheasants touched me.

The Seasons of Change

Yesterday, at least three people told me that after rolling my clock back an hour before I went to bed I’d get an extra hour of sleep this morning . But naturally, I didn’t. And I bet you probably didn’t either. The body’s internal time-keeper doesn’t give a fig what our clocks say.

Nevertheless, I confess that I like it when people say we’ll get that bonus sleep. It’s such a hopeful way to look at change, forecasting the possible benefits.

Changes, after all, even changes for the better, are disorienting to us all. They bring the discomfort of having to adapt, to let go of a piece of our familiar world in exchange for an altered one. When they’re not for the better, they can drag clouds of insecurity and doubt across our internal landscapes.

But happy or not, change is one of life’s certainties. I keep a small rock engraved with the word “change” on my kitchen window sill to remind me of that. Not only does it advise me that the present is a flow-state, but it helps me keep my balance in the face of life’s unexpected turns.

It reminds me that sometimes change is rocky; life’s like that. It’s like a brook that meanders for a time, then tumbles down a hill into a whole different terrain. “Be like the water,” my rock tells me, “that achieves new smoothness as it goes on.”

I think about that picture. It’s not an instant smooth. Even water needs some time to adapt. But a new smoothness will come–and here’s the key–“as it goes on.” How long it takes depends on the size of the tumble and the shape of the new terrain. Sometimes we go through tumble after tumble. Yet the terrain always has its bends, and some of them open to a world of surprising light and relief. Remember that and just keep going forward. You never know what the next turning will bring.

And remember to look for opportunity as you go, too. Change unfailingly has a few of those tucked away. It offers new perspectives, but it’s up to you to spot them and then to paddle your way over to their side of the shore. They’re usually bright little bubbles with a glow of hope to them. And hope is a wonderful thing. It propels you in good directions. It lightens your spirit and mind. So keep your eye out for possibilities.

It’s like the writer and philosopher Alan Watts said: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” I heartily agree.

Be like the brook, and flow on.

Warmly,
Susan

Never Give Up

You never know in the morning
what a day will hold. Surprises
almost always lurk in the folds
of its hours, some welcome, some not.
But both are gifts to you, even those
that come disguised as setbacks
or misfortune. One rewards;
the other teaches. Take this flower,
a scarlet nasturtium, that yesterday,
before it bloomed, I had almost covered
with mulch for the winter, but didn’t.
Beneath its fat, green, lily-pad leaves
I saw its tiny bud, full of life and hope.
This morning it beamed its thanks
and whispered, “Never, ever give up.”

The Bodies of Trees

Suddenly, the bodies of the trees
are bare again, their wondrous limbs
etching poems against the sky.
I stop and stare as if I’d never seen
them before, awestruck once more
by the realization that these towering
beings are as alive as I am,
cycling through the same seasons,
knowing the same ebb and flow
of darkness and light,
of activity and rest.
I reach out to touch the smooth
cool bark of a sycamore,
and although its consciousness
is far beyond my knowing,
I feel a connection and something
deep within me breathes, “Alive.
Yes, alive.”