"Almanac" by Lois Parker Edstrom

My grandparents owned the land,

worked the land, bound 

to the earth by seasons of planting 

and harvest. 

They watched the sky, the habits

of birds, hues of sunset, 

the moods of moon and clouds, 

the disposition of air. 

They inhaled the coming season, 

let it brighten their blood 

for the work ahead. 

Soil sifted through their fingers

imbedded beneath their nails 

and this is what they knew; 

this rhythm circling the years. 

They never left their land; 

each in their own time 

settled deeper. 

"Almanac" by Lois Parker Edstrom from Night Beyond Black. © MoonPath Press, 2016.

"I Hear You Call, Pine Tree" by Yone Noguchi

A Bat Flying Near a Pine Tree, Issho, 19th Century

I hear you call, pine tree, I hear you upon the hill, by the silent pond

where the lotus flowers bloom, I hear you call, pine tree.

What is it you call, pine tree, when the rains fall, when the winds

blow, and when the stars appear, what is it you call, pine tree?

I hear you call, pine tree, but I am blind, and do not know how to

reach you, pine tree. Who will take me to you, pine tree?

1921. Public Domain.

Note: In Japan the pine tree, or matsu (松の木), symbolizes longevity,

virtue and youth and is often associated with masculinity and power

– prior to the Edo period it was a particularly popular decoration on

samurai armour. The word matsu means waiting for the soul of a god

to descend from Heaven, and in ancient Shinto beliefs, the gods were

said to have ascended to Heaven on a pine tree.

"Squall" by Leonora Speyer

The squall sweeps grey-winged across the obliterated hills,

And the startled lake seems to run before it;

From the wood comes a clamor of leaves,

Tugging at the twigs,

Pouring from the branches,

And suddenly the birds are still.

Thunder crumples the sky,

Lightning tears at it.

And now the rain!

The rain--thudding--implacable--

The wind, reveling in the confusion of great pines!

And a silver sifting of light,

A coolness;

A sense of summer anger passing,

Of summer gentleness creeping nearer--

Penitent, tearful,

Forgiven!

1927. Public Domain.

"Looking at a Lizard" by Barry Spacks

Aboriginal rock art, Northern Tablelands, Australia

Photo: Don Hitchcock

My only purpose this moment

is looking at a lizard.

Does he know he’s not alone?

He breathes with tiny push-ups,

his skin all hairline caverns

soaking up the sun.

I doubt, alive, I’m liable to get

closer to timelessness than this,

looking at a little lizard breathing.

"Looking at a Lizard" by Barry Spacks from Shaping Water. © Gunpowder Press, 2015.

"The Lilies" by Wendell Berry

Yellow Trout Lilies (Erythronium americanum)*

Hunting them, a man must sweat, bear

the whine of a mosquito in his ear,

grow thirsty, tired, despair perhaps

of ever finding them, walk a long way.

He must give himself over to chance,

for they live beyond prediction.

He must give himself over to patience,

for they live beyond will. He must be led

along the hill as by a prayer.

If he finds them anywhere, he will find

a few, paired on their stalks,

at ease in the air as souls in bliss.

I found them here at first without hunting,

by grace, as all beauties are first found.

I have hunted and not found them here.

Found, unfound, they breathe their light

into the mind, year after year.

"The Lilies" by Wendell Berry from New Collected Poems. © Counterpoint, 2012.

*The yellow (Erythronium americanum) and white (E. albidum) Trout lilies are synonymous with early spring ephemeral woodland wildflowers. These small (4 - 6" tall) members of the lily family can put on quite a show when a cluster of them is in full flower. These lilies take seven years to mature and when mature have two mottled basal leaves. The flowers have six tepals (three sepals and three petals) and open during the day (to the extent that they are recurved when fully open) and close at night (to protect the pollen on the showy reddish or yellow anthers.) These are deep-rooted plants and roots can go 8" deep and highly organic or sandy-loam soils are required for these species to thrive. Because these plants flower so early (often in March) the leaves disappear often by the first of May.

Trout lilies are often called Fawn lilies (due to the mottled or spotted leaves and the appearance that resembles a fawn's ears) or Dog-tooth violets because the corms supposedly resemble a dog's tooth and the flowers resemble violets. The name Trout lily is given because of the mottled leaves and the blooming of the flowers during trout fishing season. It is sometimes called Adder's tongue because of the tongue-like flower shape of the flowering shoot as it emerges in the spring and resembles the open mouth of a snake. Both species are found across the state of Kentucky and are common. Supposedly the corm is edible and tastes like a cucumber.

By Dr. Thomas Barnes, from Kentucky Native Plant and Wildlife.

"Blue" by Elizabeth Poliner

"Birch Island, Southwest from Lookout Point, Harpswell" by Henry Isaacs

Great Island, Harpswell, Maine

Clear windy day and

the ocean’s waters rush ahead

singing.

In the distance off the low islands

the white splash of waves.

The clouds,

huge white puffs, stationary

in the bluest

air, seem unreal,

as if imported

and tacked up

by some grand producer.

Oh, the blue

we live in, bright sky

blue, glossy silvery

ocean blue—the blue

we’re permitted:

our essential bed,

our daily blanket—

it’s our home, this life in,

through and around

blue—by plan or chance,

by any account

a wonder, a miracle,

day like today,

the water busy,

noisy and constant

as if no amount of praise

were enough

for our blue, brilliant world.

"Blue" by Elizabeth Poliner from What You Know In Your Hands. © David Robert Books, 2015.

"The Owl" by Edward Thomas

"Winter Pine - Great Horned Owl" by Robert Bateman, 1930

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;

Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof

Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest

Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,

Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.

All of the night was quite barred out except

An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, 

No merry note, nor cause of merriment,

But one telling me plain what I escaped

And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose, 

Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice

Speaking for all who lay under the stars,

Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

Source: Poems (1917)

"By Frazier Creek Falls" by Gary Snyder

Frazier Creek Falls, Plumas National Forest, California

Photo: Robert Fike

Standing up on lifted, folded rock

looking out and down—

The creek falls to a far valley.

hills beyond that

facing, half-forested, dry

—clear sky

strong wind in the

stiff glittering needle clusters

of the pine—their brown

round trunk bodies

straight, still;

rustling trembling limbs and twigs

listen.

This living flowing land

is all there is, forever

We are it

it sings through us—

We could live on this Earth

without clothes or tools!

"By Frazier Creek Falls" by Gary Snyder from No Nature. © Pantheon Books, 1992.

"Snow-Flakes" By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

From "Baika Jo = The Plum Blossom Album" Baikan Okada, 1808

Out of the bosom of the Air,

      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

            Silent, and soft, and slow

            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

      In the white countenance confession,

            The troubled sky reveals

            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

            Now whispered and revealed

            To wood and field.

"Lost" by David Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,

I have made this place around you.

If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.

No two trees are the same to Raven.

No two branches are the same to Wren.

If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,

You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows

Where you are. You must let it find you.

"Lost" by David Wagoner from Traveling Light: Collected and New Poems. © University of Illinois Press, 1999.

"Over in Montana" by William Stafford

"Winter Peregrine" by Nicholas Oberling

Winter stops by for a visit each year.

Dead leaves cluster around. They know what is

coming. They listen to some silent song.

At a bend in the Missouri, up where

it’s clear, teal and mallards lower

their wings and come gliding in.

A cottonwood grove gets ready. Limbs

reach out. They touch and shiver.

These nights are going to get cold.

Stars will sharpen and glitter. They make

their strange signs in a rigid pattern

above hollow trees and burrows and houses—

The great story weaves closer and closer, millions of

touches, wide spaces lying out in the open,

huddles of brush and grass, all the little lives.

"Over in Montana" by William Stafford from Even In Quiet Places. © Confluence Press, 1996.

"Mandarin Ducks and Snow-Covered Reeds" by Paula Bohince

"Mandarin Ducks in Snow" Woodblock Print, Ohara Koson, 1935

When one dives, separate from her mate,

death is mere illusion.

She peers through water, assuring this.

When the crippled reeds rehabilitate, begin

their constant arc toward spring,

pain seems impossible. So distance. So change-

of-heart. From above or beneath, how

a body will twist, intuiting fear

and replacing it with here-ness, exhibit of

faithfulness. Wordlessly saying, Be not afraid,

Beloved, for the present exalts us!

Paula Bohince is the author of The Children and Incident at the Edge of Bayonet Woods. She lives in Pennsylvania.

"As imperceptibly as Grief" by Emily Dickinson

Sarah Ross

As imperceptibly as Grief

The Summer lapsed away—

Too imperceptible at last,

To seem like Perfidy—

A Quietness distilled

As Twilight long begun

Or Nature spending with herself

Sequestered Afternoon—

The Dusk drew earlier in—

The Morning foreign shone—

A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,

As Guest, that would be gone—

And thus, without a Wing

Or service of a Keel

Our Summer made her light escape

Into the Beautiful.

"Possum" by Matthew Wimberly

"Possum Generations" by Caleb Smith

As I go on unnoticed under the clouds

And back onto the logging path

Toward home, I stand at a fork

Beside a rusted vine of barbed wire

Wanting, for whatever reason

(For only a breath) to see myself at seven

Coming upon this spot

Stopping in the same trough of trail,

Eyes looking into a scaffold of trees—

Finding a possum someone strung up

As a warning in a low branch, dead & rotting. I remember

How evenly the skin decayed

Over the jaw

Exposing a wide grin, a laughter—

The body stretched into the outline of sorrow

A broken branch stabbed through

Its side. Dust & fur shed from vertebrae

In summer’s flat light

When I knew little of death—

Only the color it made of bones,

Opaque claws turning turquoise

Before being changed altogether

Into slivers of smoked glass.

And the naked tail

Stiff and furless

Was not terrible & grotesque

But (became beautiful)

A fine lace spun in the wind

The body untouchable

As the night sky.

Always there would be

Something in the bend of that shagbark—

A recess carved from memory

(Where the animal eroded—

A smile unchanged for months.)

I walk ahead until in the distance my porch light

Casts a glow, whorling against the fog

Like a lullaby to no one.

It’s almost winter

Frost covers the wooden steps.

Overhead the constellations are recognizable.

I can hold them one at a time

On the flat of my hand—

Light years scaled down

Across my knuckles.

"The Trout" by Amy Lowell

Naughty little speckled trout,

Can’t I coax you to come out?
Is it such great fun to play
In the water every day?
Do you pull the Naiads’ hair
Hiding in the lilies there?
Do you hunt for fishes’ eggs,
Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?
Do the little trouts have school
In some deep sun-glinted pool,
And in recess play at tag
Round that bed of purple flag?
I have tried so hard to catch you,
Hours and hours I’ve sat to watch you;
But you never will come out,
Naughty little speckled trout!

"What's Found" by Sheila Packa

in the tangle of trees

in twigs

from branches

and trunks and roots

in the ephemeral

tenderness of green

leaves that last a season

in the trembling and wind

the blue of sky and lake

in clouds resounding

from a place of emptiness

a chamber that answers

in vibration, string and wind

a trembling, brimming and falling

in the place opposite of grief

the place opposite of dark

in the body of lost

in water and air

a star whose light

has ended but travels

toward us

rising and falling

in a cascade of notes

which is not endless

but aching and sweet

like iridescent feathers

of wings that rise and fall

in the circle of migration

in each flight

music that we breathe

"What's Found" by Sheila Packa from Echo & Lighting. © Wildwood River Press, 2010.

"And Now it's October" by Barbara Crooker

"October Moonrise" by Glenn Rudderow

the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run

to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy

pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells,

the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright

as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down. All the feathery

grasses shine in the slanted light. It’s time to bring in the lawn chairs

and wind chimes, time to draw the drapes against the wind, time to hunker

down. Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup, but nothing can stopper time.

No way to seal it in wax or amber; it slides though our hands like a rope

of silk. At night, the moon’s restless searchlight sweeps across the sky.

"And Now it's October" by Barbara Crooker from Small Rain. © Purple Flag Press, 2014. 

"The Sunday Swim, Comanche Trace" by Noel Crook

"Peaceful Canyon" by Roland Lee

The canyon ledge was steep and stark,

the pool below a patch of dark.

The canyon wrens careened our names

and from the narrow overhangs

the lupines leaned and clung, like us,

to any purchase they could muster.

We grappled down the frowning rock

then bolted for the swimming dock,

slowed to strip down to our skins,

the bullfrogs plopped to beat us in.

Other children, dark and bare,

had bathed and played and squatted there

and left us shining arrowheads

along the rocky water’s edge.

The velvet slime squeezed through our toes,

the water greened our feet and rose

around our hips and pulled us in,

filled our arms and cupped our chins.

Its coolness seeped into an ear.

The minnows threaded through our hair.

We floated there along with clouds,

clouds our ceiling, clouds our ground.

"The Sunday Swim, Comanche Trace" by Noel Crook from Salt Moon. © Southern Illinois University Press, 2015. 

"Look It Over" by Wendell Berry

From "The Sagebrush Sea" on Nature. Watch it HERE.

I leave behind even

my walking stick. My knife

is in my pocket, but that

I have forgot. I bring

no car, no cell phone,

no computer, no camera,

no CD player, no fax, no

TV, not even a book. I go

into the woods. I sit on

a log provided at no cost.

It is the earth I’ve come to,

the earth itself, sadly

abused by the stupidity

only humans are capable of

but, as ever, itself. Free.

A bargain! Get it while it lasts.

"Look It Over" by Wendell Berry from New Collected Poems. © Counterpoint Press, 2012.

Happy Birthday, Mary

It's Mary Oliver's birthday today, a celebration of a life lived deeply and given freely through poetry. No one else I know of has lived more in tune with the natural world--and with our humanity--than has Mary Oliver.

"Forest Sunrise" by Alfred Bierstadt (1830-1903)

MORNING POEM

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches--

and ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn

that is heavier than lead--

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging--

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted--

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

"Morning Poem" by Mary Oliver, from Dream Work, 1986.