Love's Language

Did you know? The language
of love has no need of words
though it flourishes and is
nurtured by linked emotions of
yearning and comfort, leavened
with humour and gladness for all
we are to one another once passion
takes its back seat to the glow of
the spirit like the cloud-emergence
of the sun that I glow in response to
in your presence. The ease we feel
in the unity of our thoughts, the 
warmth of a spontaneous embrace 
the contentment of being when 
we are together speaks its own 
intimately vibrant language
we hear and see and feel but do
not speak of. This familiarity
and purpose of our binary 
existence speaks volumes of
our past, our present, our future.

 

Autumn Fall

The type of percussive, penetrating
incessant rain we had all day previous
is just the kind of precipitation that is
known to turn certain surfaces into
a gelatinous turgid mess almost
swamp-like in its foetid dark density
with the attribute of a gliding raceway.
When a forest floor is comprised of
clay and sand such an inundation
creates a moving, dank instability 
which even and above all, intrepid
forest hikers should know augers ill.
On flat-surface trails, not so bad
but venture ill-advisedly uphill or
downhill and one gambles with the
potential to twist and tumble while
some nasty woodland elf witnessing
the event feels itself right royally
entertained. The impression that
the hiker is in full control vanishes
in an instant when an ill-chosen step
is taken with a modicum of confidence
only to gain the brief belief that one
has stepped into a slow-motion
calamity that sees boots betraying
the wearer, slipping and slithering
on the motion-prone clay, taking feet
and legs, backside and outstretched
arms on a trip one would far prefer
not to be at one with all angled and
reluctantly surprised. The evidence
of that departure from dignity can
only be expunged once clothing,
trousers, jacket, mittens are discarded
on reaching home, the drying patches
of thick clay tinting the basin a
deep rich colour of vomit, unceasingly
ridding the garments of their burden
ultimately to be surrendered to the
washing machine bearing no 
resemblance whatever to the function
of the rain washing the atmosphere to
create of an entire landscape an exercise
in random acts of imposed genuflection.

Not So, Beloved

Yes, it did trouble her grandmother
when the little girl for whom her
grandparents provided nine years
of devoted working-day care-giving
in her headstrong fashion of a child's
emerging id, refused to take any
personal responsibility and failed to
demonstrate generosity of spirit.
But she had other attributes and was
after all, the only grandchild so
care and love was lavished upon
the child. Even so, her grandmother
admonished her every time she
chimed "not my fault!", careful not
to seem too harsh about it. Now 20
and a university student, a familiar
agency regularly deposits $1700 monthly
to her bank account, to see his
granddaughter through university;
the very same grandfather who recently 
underwent open heart surgery waiting
in vain for a solicitous call from said
granddaughter, which never came.
The grandmother emailed an enquiry
and for her troubles was messaged
that same old defense: "not my fault!"
A sentiment obviously geared to
take her through her professional life
as a criminal lawyer, an aspiration
she has clung to since she was a child.

Romantically Mine

He is a romantic by nature. He is
also impulsive, and no doubt it was on
impulse that he surprised me one day
with a tattoo which I thought was a
transfer and said joke over, take it off.
No transfer that; after all he was an
adult, father of three infants, my young
husband. The first letter of my name
was rendered larger than the remaining
four letters, all in what the tattoo artist
took for a reasonable cursive. But that
was so long ago not only is the red of
the heart entwined with the last letter
no longer red, but the name itself can
no longer be deciphered. Over fifty
years have passed since he  surprised
me and set himself up for an awkward
situation had he ever chosen to stray.
Is that faded tattoo with its illegible
name now giving him free pass to 
wander off, no longer locked in to a
name so blurred as to match the facial
features of the young girl he loved back
then? If so, he hasn't succumbed to
taking that irresistible bait, so perhaps 
I can conclude the symbolism of
permanence owes nothing to the tattoo.

What's This?!

Not to complain, good grief never, no!
Did want to point out to whoever
might be interested that October is
not yet over for this year, and ghostly
Hallowe'en has not yet struck since
the 31st is still four days off, you know.
Yes, a new weather front arrived a few
days earlier, and yes the winds it
invited came bellowing into the
atmosphere and it in turn invited a
succession of really, really icy-cold
days, and heavily overcast skies. Call
it a prelude, a premonition, a rehearsal
but in October? Our two little dogs are
thrilled, just as children tend to be
at the sight of snow, unexpected and
inviting as a playground prospect
with those very special properties
known to freezing moisture. But we
who must shovel it and travel in its
excesses, not quite so joyful at its
impetuous arrival though all the signs
were there and we simply were too
reluctant to read them with any 
degree of accuracy, experience aside.

Their Story

Brother and sister, they were mites,
barely three and four when their 
father left and their mother left them
abandoned and the aunt who was not
really their aunt became the person
who mothered them, adopted them
as her very own. A confusing event
for the little ones but children are
adaptable when they recognize love
for the first time and cling feociously.
Though they saw their birth mother
on some rare occasions it was their
auntie-mother on whom they dispensed 
love, lavished trust and their lives.
The gossamer-slender ties that
bound them were tight and lasting
for this was a bond thicker than
blood. The siblings now in their seventies 
and in poor health, their auntie-mother is
in her mid-90s, frail and dependent,
long living in a seniors' home to which
she can no longer return resulting from
the level of medical care she requires. 
So the infants become caretakers closely
attendant on her needs, seeking to provide
for her what she had done for them. 
Love spins in circular webs of need.

Summiting

The renowned surgeon must surely
have been a preternaturally gifted child
a phenomenon that would have pleased
his parents enormously and whose pride
in their offspring can only be imagined.
It is hard for his patients to imagine
actually, that this slender, very young
man with the cherubic countenance
and the professional enthusiasm of
a mountain climber who professes in a
moment of exuberance that each surgery
he performs becomes yet another perfect
ascent of a forbidding mountain peak;
a man who could be the age of their
own grandchildren, has the capability
the amazing capacity to enter the portal
of their sundered sternum to mend their 
broken hearts. See there! he enthuses, 
proudly illuminating the chest X-ray 
taken a month post-surgery. It's perfect, 
a job well done! What can they do but 
agree, happy for his satisfaction but then
happier that his surgical expertise has
lengthened the age-shortened lease on life.

Theirs Alone

There, over there. There they are
black imps that they are, siblings
in puppyhood under the forgivable
delusion that the glowing autumn arras
they prance about within chasing
after wind-blown foliage, then
one another, is theirs, theirs alone.
They are small, not exceedingly
but small withal and in the forest
that seems so vast and expansive
they could easily be overlooked
if it were not that the landscape is
now a monochrome of yellow and
they are not. It is cold, as fall tends
to be, and the wind bellows through
the trees, ripping gold and bronze
red and orange leafs from their
abortive perches where they cling
as though to fall away is to signal
they are complicit with nature in
agreeing that winter may soon arrive.
The puppies prance and leap, pirouette
and race madly off in all directions
feinting and herding one another in 
an expression of utter exhilaration
loving the nippy air, the wind, the
fallen detritus, and above all, life.

 

 

Autumn Gold

Truly, it's a golden day in the 
forest. Shades of imperial gold
reflect throughout the leaf mass
hanging on tree spires in glad
celebration of autumn, soon
tumbling, scattered by a 
mischief-prone howling wind
to a dazzling plush layer of
melded gold nuggets, like a
moving mat of mysterious origin
lifted from the forest floor by
wayward gusts. The golden
chariot of the sun sparks the
fire of gold in all its radiant
outreach illuminating the forest
canopy, sending its golden beams
in search of the treasures in
abundance on poplars, maples and 
birch bursting with golden pride.

The Pewter Sky

The sky an opaque pewter
shield, unrelenting showers
descend in a fury of
autumnal transition forced
upon a landscape unwilling
to absorb the bellowing wind
directing the rainy fusillade
into cornices and crevices
hollows and clefts, leaving
no surface however sheltered
free of a watery scouring.
Trees and shrubbery shedding
foliage loose the summer 
bonds raining their own
wind-swept fountain of
colourful drenched leaves
to scatter with the rain
over a landscape suffocating
in this perpetual twilight
heralding winter's onset.

Glossy Jewels

The aristocracy of the well-mannered
garden know their place in the scheme
of things, and theirs is front-and-centre
the showpieces of grand display
sumptuously flaunting their blooms
of radiant colour, ruffling their petals
in conceited and hugely admired
demonstrations of sheer perfection.
There is not much that persuades
roses to obey nature's dictum when
fall arrives and other, less distinguished
garden inhabitants succumb to the
pressures of wind, rain and cold.
Certainly roses have no intention of
joining them, not without the drama
of their final presentation as the curtain
of summer bloom-time falls and 
autumn demands its due in withering
detail. And so, peruse the garden, the
stubborn and glorious roses grandly
flouting the season, setting buds and
nurturing them to full bloom despite the
wicked rain that pelts from the cloud
crowded sky unrelenting in its fury
unaware that in washing over those roses
it transforms the petals into glossy jewels.

My Secret (Fall) Eden

The view is an insider's delight.
It is quite simply splendid, and that
pleases me immeasurably. It is a
pleasure that has been well earned
one that corroborates pride and
ownership -- on loan, granted, from
nature -- of a micro landscape all
my own, a slice of heaven mine alone
qualifying without a doubt as my
secret garden, hidden from view
one which my personal perspective
alone is able to assess and take
such unalloyed pleasure in. And the
opportunity to view it a serendipitous
one, having merely to glance whenever
the opportunity arises as it so often
does, to pause before my front door
and there, before my eyes, appears
the garden nurtured and beloved
proudly displaying itself even at
a time when fall informs all green
growing things their seasonal time 
has expired and they must take rest.

A Sweet Task

As I hear the businesslike mechanical
whir of a precision instrument, I
note the ease with which it handles
as I exert little effort pushing it
gaining the satisfaction of seeing its
rotating blades effortlessly cutting 
the grass of my front lawn, the rotary
mower more than adequate to the task
I have set myself and for its performance.
Sound and smell are said to be powerful
memory boosters and that sound brings
to mind my short, stout eastern European
father exerting great effort on the rare
occasion he deigned to mow the spitting
distance area of miserable grass on
the lawn he called his own. Now, so
many years later his daughter expends
little effort in doing likewise though
over fifty years have passed since his
death at age ... who knows? Homeless
orphans are not known to carry legal
documentation attesting to their date
of birth and from his early teens forward
he could only guess his age. But he
knew what he liked to do, play the tuba
in a small orchestra, hold forth on 
matters philosophical despite his lack
of formal education, roll his own before
dying of cancer of the throat and investing
in penny stock. As for me, he left me a
legacy as a bibliophile, and a willingness
to work hard as its own reward, and 
cutting grass is, for me, a sweet task.

Fall Rain in the Forest

A brooding fall day unimpressed by
the better nature of a landscape
transformed with brightly turning
foliage of breathtaking scope
invited dark thunderheads to grumble
through the dark night sky washing
the landscape in transparency. When
daylight dawned undecided to welcome
misty fog and showers, the sun had its
brief say until an aggressive wind
returned bleak clouds even while
a balmy atmosphere, unusual for the
season, prevailed. Unappeased
the wind countered the warmth
to belligerently strip the forest canopy
violating peace and serenity, raining 
pine needles in orange disarray, plunging
foliage in a confetti of shades onto
the forest floor, until its puzzling
unreasoning, seasonal rage subsided.

 

The Final Word

Absorbing the beauty of the garden
even while acknowledging how tired
it is, worn from its endless enthusiasm
inciting foliage to luxuriate in the
elements of summer, exciting blooms
to spectacular display, the drama of
the garden now awaits its final, sorrowful 
act, expunging the exuberance of summer
the steadfast determination of fall
to finally reach the impasse a succession
of frosts determine. It is time to wrap up
its splendid joy in life, its presence and 
its earned conceit and admiration in
equal measure. The garden's faithful
companion, still finding a wealth of
firm texture, form and colour to tease
her gardener's eye and please the passion
of his gardening soul, face the inevitable 
with the reluctance of pensive denial.
Surely it is too soon to discard the annuals
cut back the perennials, tidy the shrubs and
ornamental trees! The garden landscape
gives pleasure still in the remnants of
summer, the hardiness of fall. Yet
experience knows how it must now
proceed, to transform delight into a bleak 
and empty garden; this the final word.

Our Gardens

Nature encourages us to emulate
her divine constructs in an orderly
manner unlike her own, the result
of which we take personal pride in
as our gardens of earthly delight.
We make careful note of each tender 
plant's needs, just as nature has
instructed and take pains to achieve
success, to model ourselves on her
flawless protocols, fussily amending
the growing medium, placing plants
where sun or shade nurture them and
even take such bold steps as to
challenge her expertise, in experimenting
with bold new cultivars. Oh, we're a
cheeky lot, daring to move her designs
from environments they are specific
to, as though hubris compels us to
confront the mistress of gardening
with a smirk of superiority. Yet, the
last word is always hers, as she shifts
her seasons, making quick and deadly
work of our pride, destroying our
creations through wind, cold and
snow, then graciously permitting us 
to begin anew, season after season.

Nature's Gifts

As an often-elusive yet sought-after
goal, perfection can still be found in
places where they can be expected.
Atmospheric, mood-elevating,
opportunistic and just plain perfectly
wonderful describes the autumn
landscape on a breezy, sunny and
mild day when the woods are in
full-to-partial colour display
and a bench can be found in the
most auspicious place to sit and
contemplate the perfection that is
nature. That same nature offers us
another kind of perfection; the
meeting of souls in a tandem of
loving bliss as when couples wander
among the trees, wondering at their
kaleidoscopic display, the breeze
ruffling hair and freshening the air
to take their leisure on the bench
so fortuitously appearing. To gaze
perchance with love upon one another?
To softly and wistfully speak of the
future they plan to share together?
Or to murmur to one another their
profound appreciation that nature
provides this opportunity to be
surrounded by her wondrous
landscape, embraced by her unerring
eye for painterly wisdom in gifting
humankind with her treasures. But
no, there sit the couple, close but
not too close, each absorbed singly
and privately in another companion
the everpresent ubiquitous cellphone.

Fallen Idols

They were once viewed with awe
above and beyond, no equals other
than their professional peers, all of
whom held the magic of healing in
their memories, trained to observe
and to diagnose, to prescribe and to 
treat, and return to health would follow
their grateful patients. Minor mishaps
were their bailiwick, stitches to graft
skin back together, excisions where
required to remove offending
infection-prone cyst. Delivering
newborns, no problem. The care of
the entire family was in their
capable hands. When the patient
was immobilized, the good doctor
would pay a house-call and administer
diagnosis and immediate treatment;
thank goodness for antibiotics. On
call to visit his patients post-surgery,
he was here, there, everywhere. Those
days and that dedication gone forever.
The current crop no longer held in awe
they still feel entitled to be, more adept
at computer use than engaging physically
with their patients, making no house
calls, spurning hospital visits, their
speciality now is referrals; whatever
the patient's health condition can be
solved by referring to a medical
specialist; the general practitioner
has become a referral agent. Sad.

 

 

Autumn Symphony

If you can see it you can hear it,
the divine symphony that
Nature has composed to
complement her evanescently
exquisite seasonal landscapes.
Beyond wind soughing
through the forest canopy
there is an orchestral
musical sphere glowing
in transcendental tones of
green and gold highlighted 
by scintillating bright reds
and sombre bronzes, sighting
and sounding farewells and
promises to return time after
time to the revolving seasons.

Time and Patience

If life's experience smiles kindly
upon you, those times when you feel
discouraged, apprehensive of the future
fearful of the present and in need of
a friendly smile from someone
genuinely engaged in you as an
individual, feel free to dispense with
the civility you feel owing in excess
meeting by happenstance with the
ultimate overbearing bore whom
only his faithful dog could love
without reservation. When your
face betrays your emotions and
the fellow leans in with his faux
concern, pressing for whatever
may pass as gossip, simply do that
mental shrug and shift the conversation
making it brief and pointless as you
casually note you're late for an
appointment, leaving the fellow
bemused and none the wiser. The
residual satisfaction of bypassing
that little social trap could even
proffer a glimpse of hope that the
issue of your pressing concern is not
that grave that time and patience
won't work their magic to resolve.

Illusions

It's a fond conceit that people
cling to, that old adage that
absence makes the heart grow fonder.
In the hope that if one believes it
and it has been articulated as an
article of belief, it must be true. But
there are other truths as well, equally
reflective of humanity that absence,
lack of physical presence serves to
make the break that the mind
recognizes as distance equalling
disaffection, setting aside the warmth
of familial memories and that other
dog-eared belief that blood is thicker
than water. When, in fact, coexistence
between neighbours and friends marks
a constant of presence and familiar
faces engender the familiarity of
habit and commonality of purpose
so when people in need turn to others
it is often not to those who are by
happenstance or alternately deliberate
action distant and remote, but to those
whose presence is assuredly immediate.

Fabulist

In the best and brightest of
her mercurial moods nature will
deign to share her treasures with us.
We have only to venture forth and
to observe with the practised eye of
one absorbed in the world about us
to discover jewels we would rarely
expect to encounter and autumn
is as good a season as any to
bask in the golden glow of an
afternoon sun warming the crisp
air of a fall day. Emerald gleams
in that fabulous orb's rays as they
illuminate still-green foliage but
here and there ruby sparkles
where maples have turned from
green to red under a sapphire sky.
The tumbling silver of a forest
stream reveals diamonds gliding
past where the sun lingers on the
lazy passage of the stream on the
forest floor. And there, there's the
pot of gold of nature's devising; an
old tree stump whose hollow is put
to use as a graceful receptacle for the
furbelowed ruffles of brilliant orange
baubles beloved of nature's conceit
in ornamenting her domain with
the elaborate treasures she devises.

Seasonal Decline

The burnt-bronze of a copse
of beech, the flamboyant red
of the maples, trembling-gold of
birches are autumn-resplendent
among the dark green needles of
spruce, pine and fir. Bright, cheery
haws of Hawthorns swift to shed
their foliage, among the banner-bright
orange-crimson of stag-horn sumac 
for there is no mistaking the season
that has so impetuously overtaken
languid summer, leaving gardens
languishing with spent annuals
even as the forest takes charge
of the season, welcoming the
return of northern birds exchanging
place with their southern-inclined
species, abandoning the frigid
climes of approaching winter,
the last hurrah of butterflies
damselflies and bees
marshalling their final resources
in the life cycle of seasonal decline.

Our Island

Here we are, we two
veterans of a long and happy
life together, carefully dancing
to the refrains of the music
that rocked our world
as teens when over
sixty years ago we
opened our hearts
tender with youth and
yearning to one another.
Dancing as we have
accustomed ourselves
of latter years around the
island standing on our
kitchen floor, and now
at this very time a scant
several weeks post
open-heart surgery. Your
arms around me, guiding me
as you have done throughout
the times of our life as one
hearts beating in a tandem
of love: you, me, 
love and devotion.

Autumn Arras

Clear as the morning dew
and sharp as daybreak's chill
a bluejay's call rings piercing
and true through the fall woods
as a lazy breeze detaches
a rainbow of foliage 
from maples, poplars, birch
and hackberry. Lone bees still
sporadically nuzzle into
sprays of goldenrod and
purple asters. In the shallows
of the forest a stream plods
its route on the geology of the
forest to find its home in a
near-distant river. Bracken
on the forest floor yellows
day by day, subsumed by the
soil. And fungi shapely and
colour-shaded vie with
newly-revealed club mosses
for their place in the
seasonal evolution before
winter's inevitable presence.