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.