NATURE

Watch…as a honeybee poses briefly on a perfect daylily, then dances through the melon patch to make sure the blossoms there are fruitful…Inhale Nature’s comforting breath, air-conditioning ocean breeze, lifter of rainbow kites, scourge of airborne little biters…Picture volcanic slopes of Hawaii’s Diamond Head back-dropping a Pacific Island paradise. Nature! Yes! Nothing artificial. All-Natural… like the bee that stung a curious, very allergic four year-old…or, like the ocean breeze that swelled and grew big enough to earn a name…Katrina. And don’t forget that smelly, volcanic ditch on Montserrat that disappointed tourists, until it BLEW UP, quite Naturally, not so long ago, and buried two-thirds of a Caribbean Island paradise, disappointing every one… Ah, Nature…Nature is…Nature IS.

stillwater

Stillwater...a kill runs through it,
Paulina's Kill, still in places, mostly flowing.
And there are brooks and ponds,
lakes, springs, and stories (of still waters and
bootleg distillers, de-stilled, and long gone...
years before Gaul opened a liquor store,
or a park could expose their game.)

Water...still, and trees...
Woods returning, reclaiming;
cedar scouts leading the advance,
as companies of oaks and maples recover ground
once cowed for milk to be trained
in those big metal cans
from a Stillwater station.

The milk flowed to cities mostly, but, now,
it's hikers and horses, no rails on the trail.
And the Holsteins have slipped away like the moonshiners,
both, perhaps, looking for Lenape-Americans,
native campers, long gone, but
evidence of their sojourn, not hard to find,
unearthed by Spring plowing, and washed by Spring rains...

Trees...have returned, and in their wake, others;
the opportunistic sorts of hangers-on, that follows armies,
sheltered and nourished, protected by a treeful host.
This time, the riff-raff finding cover, a not-so-shadowy menagerie:
beaver-bear-turkey-deer-coyote...
eagles even, and evenings' owls...
who...hoot...who-hoots-for-yoouuu...

Yes...trees, waters and wildlife in Stillwater abound,
and country roads wind to the homes,
where good people are found.
There are more humans than cows now, and
more deer than Democrats,
(but not so many of the visitors
that used to wander Swartswood in tell-tale heels, after dining, now that Louis' Lake House is Gone).

Not far, down the road...Lotus Landing remains...
not in Peacock disguise, this time...
emerging for its next stand as The Boathouse
hoping for hungry boats, rows of boats...
some canoes...perhaps, a yacht club...row boats...

Strong, handsome rowboats...
Mr. Eaves used to build 'em near the mill end of the Lake
for fathers and sons to fish from;
rowing at dawn through misty swirls,
seeking big ones that wouldn't get away,
luring not-so-big ones that didn't get away, and
wiping fishslimed hands on warming dungarees because
eating no-longer-frozen SNICKERS is better if you do that.
Mr. Eaves got away...His sturdy dock is now a Boat Launch.
A few of his strong, handsome, wooden rowboats
remain...in good hands...

Joseph Swartswood didn't get away.
Long gone, not forgotten.
Gotten by some who may have over-reacted
to his over-stay of their stillwaters.
Spilling one's guts is one way to get your name attached to a lake,
one of the best lakes,
but, maybe not the best way.

The first Mr. Robbins took a more comfortable approach,
attaching his name with a brush and some paint: Robbins Store.
Robbins had what was needed, even your mail.
A general store, outranking the majors in town.
Penny candies for pennies,
dynamite for stumps,
fish hooks and icecream,
Esso from the pumps.
There were bacon and bullets,
shaarrp cheddar by the pound,
comicbooks and work boots,
at Homedepot not found.
It was a place could be walked to
and a space that would warm you
while meeting good friends there.
Gathered round warm pot-belly
toasting shins or junkmail,
Girl Scouts on the frontporch,?
'til sadly...For Sale...

Changes...our town, changing, yet timeless...
though streets have been paved.
Good people live here on purpose,
beyond sidewalks and streetlights
taken home by country roads,
past trees, waters and wildlife...
Middle of Nowhere...
some say...
not me.

if a tree fits...

In the beginning (not THE beginning)
was the Earth,
a bit of earth actually.
Some farm.
A place,
an earthy place, some felt,
?not too shabby,? none felt
But, it was a place to start,
?Genesis??
a place to start stuff.

Actually the beginning was a seed,
was in a seed?
imagined, not imaginary?
no fairy tale beans for this place?
what grew had to be believable.

And so, a small kernel
of large imagination
was planted,
and though conditions not auditionned,
this seed, with strong ambition,
generated will to emerge.
It somehow survived.
(not nearly thriving)
In challenging soil, roots searching,
seek further, reach deeper, sustaining.
If struggling is strengthening,
this specimen: no wimp!

Tough roots exploring,
stubbornly gripping,
in ground near depleted,
not much left for a starward reach.
But,
meagre appearance belies
a nourishing network
taking hold,
developing unseen,
dark, and deep.

Patience.
No.
Prodding and pacing, anxious, not waiting,
more like pushing a river perceived as too slow.
Not quite patience, this pushing,
the seedling?s reluctance, its slowness to grow.
And then,
despair turned to praying, and ?patience? to prayer,
and these prayers, heard at last,
carried hopeless to hope.

It was the Trees that were listening, in silence responding.
Trees from the other side, with Grandfather leading,
crossing together, the Silver Lake road.
These giving tree neighbors, generous and selfless,
gave shelter,
a food place,
and time for the soil.

Limitations undone,
this sprout?s recovery was sprung,
unfolding,
fulfilling,
the seed that was holding
untold potential, and
songs to be sung?

It was the Trees?
giving trees?
emerging and healing, self-nourishing trees;
propagating and guiding, and learning, fulfilling.
These trees were commited to living for others, and
to giving their living, their shading for shelter;
these trees that were listening?

It is their turn now,
so, listen?
now?hear the trees?listen
to the trees?

from the GARDENER'S GUIDE TO LIFE

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

                                             ...William Shakespeare


The year's at the spring, and day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven; the hillside's dew-pearled:
The lark's on the wing; the snail's  on the thorn;
God's in His heaven - all's right with the world.
                                                       
                                                   ...Robert Browning

No garden is without weeds......Thomas Fuller


Weed your own garden first. ...... old saying

The Giving Tree - part 2

But the boy stayed away for a long time…and the tree was sad.

And then, one day the boy came back

and the tree shook with joy as she said, “Come, Boy,

climb up my trunk, and swing from my branches and be happy.”

“I am too busy to climb trees,” said the boy. “I want a house to keep me warm,” he said. “I want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house. Can you give me a house?”

“I have no house,” said the tree, “the forest is my house, but you may cut off my branches and build a house.Then, you will be happy.”

And so the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house and the tree was happy.

But, the boy stayed away for a long time. And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak.

“Come , boy,” she whispered, “come and play.”

“I am too old and sad to play. “I want a boat that will take me far away from here. Can you give me a boat?”

“Cut down my trunk and make a boat,” said the tree. “Then you can sail away and be happy.”

And so the boy cut down her trunk…and made a boat and sailed away, and the tree was happy…but, not really.

After a long time, the boy came back again.

“I am sorry, Boy,” said the tree, “but I have nothing left to give you---My apples are gone.”

“My teeth are too weak for apples ,” said the boy.

“My branches are gpne,” said the tree. “you can not swing on them---

“I am too old to swing on branches,” said the boy.

“My trunk is gone,” said the tree. “You can not climb---

“I am too tired to climb,” said the boy.

“ I am sorry,” sighed the tree. “I wish that I could give you something…but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump. I am sorry….”

“I don’t need very much now,” said the boy, “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired. “Well,” sid the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy sit down. Sit down and rest.”

And the boy did.

And the tree was happy.

The Giving Tree was written by Shel Silverstein

The Giving Tree - part one

Once there was a tree…
and she loved a little boy.
And every day the boy would com
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from the branches and eat apples.
They would play hide-and-go-seek,
and when he was tired he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree…and the tree was happy.

But, time went by, and the boy grew older, and the tree was often alone.

Then one day the boy came to the tree, and the tree said, “Come, Boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy.”

“I am too big to climb and play,” said the boy. “I want to buy things and have fun. I want some money. Can you give me some money?”

“I’m sorry,” said the tree, “but I have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city.
Then you will have money and you will be happy.”

And so the boy climbed up
the tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away and
the tree was happy.

Inch by Foot

Learning to live

at the edge where things happen,

a growing commitment...

an expansive arrangement,

where life is unfolding.

A place where edge is the center,

a growing edge space,

not too far,

or too little.



Like a new garden

emerging

that starts at a door...

a flourishing garden,

nourishing

growing…

edges expanding

by inches and feet as attention is paid,

a way toward fulfillment,

toward beauty and more.



Footsteps attending

seeds, timeless and patient,

good, generous soil, and

footprints on edges,

best fertilizer

of all.