<< 00:21 - September 26th, 2010 >>
Brown squish mud
Skeletal alder limbs over a washed out blue canvas.
And the small hand capturing leaves on its swinging passage
through Tryon trails.
Maple, Salal, Indian Plum: all snatched from limbs and shredded.
Tiny verdant strips fluttering down confetti-style.
This scene knows me well.
There is the Middle School voice that warns and chides against
this rude tearing into Oregon shrubbery.
Leaves lost in spring-time growth spurts will sap energy.
There is my father attacking the lavender bush and the honeysuckle vine.
Every summer, too late.
And there are the plants that remain exposed.
Scrawny and stunted in the coming years.
Slowly recovering from inopportune prunings.
And it is nature that teaches us its cycles:
Upkeep: The trimming of excessive branches.
Harvest: The collection of edibles and spices.
Growth: Letting things take their designated courses.
If they are indeed cycles,
Round and repetitive as the nautilus on my shoulder,
Then shouldn’t I know when this narrative ends?
Prepared soil, seed placed,
Moist soils and similar lush companions nearby
this plant grows too large, too fast.
Spidery black stems wilt
Ginkgo leaves turn white
There is no manual,
There are no pages that speak to me.
Leaf shredding resumes.
Let the winds carry a green message.
Let go or hold on.