Observations beneath the canopy—finding stillness, endurance, and unjudged presence among trees, seasons, and open ground.
Sunrise in the fall
Is a beautiful thing to see.
The blue sky rises tall
With the promise of all that is to be.
The air is crisp and cool
The colors are vibrant and bright.
The sun glimmers as a jewel
It is wonderous sight.
The fall is a time of transition.
We move from the heat of summer
To a colder air condition
And a change of pace like a little drummer.
The fall is to me the very best season
I like it the most, for no special reason.
I admit the yardwork never suited my hand;
Mowing the lawn is about all the labor I muster.
I resent the sharp edge of the trimmer and shears,
So I planted the saplings together, a solitary cluster.
I delayed the cutting as long as the seasons allowed,
Watching the green shoots tangle, cross borders, and mingle.
Some reached far above me, casting a shadowy wall,
Until intricate branches knit tight, woven and single.
The longer I wait, the more their living combines,
Growing taller and wider, a dense, undisciplined frame.
They interlace limbs in the quiet, tangled and wild,
Leaving no path to follow, no simple direction to name.
At last the cold steel comes out with a dreaded report,
As I step to the thicket and measure the boundary line—
Attempting to salvage the yard with a hesitant cut,
Reclaiming the borders from nature’s unruly design.
