The Pinnacle

The summit never disappoints.
Miles roll out
to the south, east, and west.
The sun is tap dancing off the lake
and there’s a chill breeze rushing in at me.
This rusty little bench I’m sitting on
may as well be an Eldorado with the top down;
I could go anywhere from here.

U-Pick

The apples are crisp and tart.
The juice trickles down my arm.
I kneel down to toss three more
into an already full bag
when I’m struck by the sudden memory
of kneeling low like this
so you could jump up onto my back.
From there, I hoisted you onto my shoulders
for a crack at those fatter redder macs
shining down from a higher branch.
But today, it’s my turn to reach
for the bright red apple
in your outstretched hand,
though not the tiny hand of the little girl
with the dimples, braces, and ponytail,
but the strong steady hand
of the woman you’ve become
since we last walked together
through sunlit trees.


On The Way Home

A pair of Canadian geese floating in the rain
on a tranquil Sunday morning.
On the way home from work, I stop
just to watch them cross
from one end of the pond to the other.
Unlike me, they have nowhere else to be.

Meanwhile, in distant churches
with ornate architecture,
stained glass windows, and oak pews,
preachers preach down from their pulpits
about the wrath of God, and all His grace.
I’ve been in such places, but I prefer the view
from a soggy park bench in late September;
the sky split open just enough
to reveal His face.

The Merging

Autumn rose. Steely grey and cold.
By late afternoon the cicadas and crickets
were singing again, and there was a hummingbird
outside my window just a few short minutes ago,
as bright as any summer day
and just as gone the moment I saw it.
The merging of these two seasons speak
all there is to know about the passive surrender
of lush green life to the frantic descent
of blushing gold death; all that crimson and rust
twisting and twirling and tumbling away
from the sun.

One Summer Night At Lake Champlain

While coaxing a wilting campfire back to life,
the most eerie, mournful sound I’ve ever heard
crept in out of the darkness.
Closer. Louder. Closer still
until there was nothing at all
but a thick, deep silence in its wake.
It had sounded like…something dying,
or dying to be heard. A loon for sure.
Then I wondered, what might a loon sound like
when it’s dying? How would you even know?
All I knew was that I needed to hear it again.
Two more nights came and went.
Each one, I listened. I listened hard;
my ears firm against the wall
of silence.

Benches

There is no shortage of benches
along the canal path where I walk.
Some are old, graffitti’d, and splintered
while others are fairly new,
and made of smooth gray metal.
What’s rare is to find a single soul
sitting in any of them. Such emptiness
would be enough to make anyone feel lonely
if they weren’t already, so sometimes I’ll stop,
sink into one, take a sip of tepid water and wait
for a cool river breeze. Sometimes it never comes
and I just lean back and drift
into the long lush silence of trees.

The Watcher And The Watched

What was once the hunter and the hunted
is today the watcher and the watched.
While the majestic jungle king
I came here to see
leers directly over at me
from across the moat,
licking his chops, salivating
while likely considering
what a tasty meal I’d make,
I along with about fifty others
stand in place like ripe fruit
on a high branch,
clicking our expensive cameras
and smart phones.
We stand here free of care,
if not for a quivering thought
of our ancient ancestors who
from this proximity
would’ve stood dry mouthed,
frozen in fear,
raising the spear,
or more wisely still,
preparing to run
for their precious lives.



A Wooded Place

Some call it forest bathing,
or so I’ve heard.
I don’t call it much of anything,
which is more to the point.
I’m sitting here alone on this stump,
and now it’s beginning to rain,
not such a shame as you might think.

The woods are humming with life
and nature’s sweetest scents
are all on offer here.
I could be in a dozen other places
doing a dozen other things
that should be done, but today, this
is where I’ve chosen to be;
a place where I can just be.

Mapping

Standing before a large map
on the wall, I trace serpentine lines
with my left index finger
across all the places I’d go
if I only had the time
and freedom to roam.
Maybe someday
I’ll see these places
as more than red and blue arteries
stretching across oddly shaped borders.
It suddenly occurs to me
that I’ve been mapping destinations
most of my life. Speaking of life,
will there be enough left in me
by the time I’m deemed old enough
to kick away these boots I’ve been wearing
since I became a man
in need of belonging?