Down the Garden Path

He led me down the garden path
a frail old man, to reveal his
magic kingdom, gardens of utter
delight, revealing to my incredulous
gaze his pact with nature in an
exchange of mutual admiration;
he for her creative inspiration
she for the zealousness of his
adoration of those creations
where creatures of the sky, the land
and the sea find haven in his
fixation on nature's bounty. There
is where I see Camperdown Elm,
Catalpa and White Birch of a
decidedly venerable elegance
anchoring a series of beds and
borders where Magnolias and
Hibiscus bloom. And where native
wild mullein thrive where they
seed, and a silent, grave Buddha
sits watch over a tranquil, trickling
pool. Birds and bees, frogs and
lizards, deer and chipmunks convene.
This is the ethereal, luminous
garden of a man whom first sight
betrays, but whom nature has 
generously invigorated, nudging him
back to younger days; his industry
and aesthetic triumphs leaving me
breathless with the spirit of envy.

A Walk in the Rain

Why not a walk in the rain? To those
close to nature a sensual exposure of senses 
and vision to a vastly altered universe where 
the atmosphere questions whether we were
once aquatic creatures ourselves readily
adaptable to either land or sea. So when
the sea visits the land an acute alternation
ensues, creating an intensity of colour
startling in its emerald brightness from
the penetrating insistence of rainfall.
And there lies the anomaly between
dark and light, for that heavily overcast
sky has brought early twilight, yet
the darkness prevailing in the wooded
interior translates to brilliant colour
nonetheless, a puzzle that nature has
yet to explain unless she too has been
taken by surprise at the consequences
that ensue when the disparate parts of
her blueprint interact. As the rain falls
dripping lightly through that green canopy
it barely moistens the hiker whose eyes
are fixed on the landscape so utterly
transformed into the quite bearable
lightness of being, pine needles
underfoot cushioning boots have
become an orange highway interspersed
with a network of roots planning
mischief with an unwary step. On
the fringes of the forest path the
appearance of magical mushrooms
in shapes and shades reflecting the
glassy mirror of rain-sodden atmosphere
informs the eyes that transformation
from corruption to survival thrives.

The Whimsical Garden

I honour an unspoken agreement
with my garden wherein I have agreed
not to impose strict order, beyond a
slight nod to tidyness. Otherwise, the
garden grows and prospers as it will.
In exchange I am permitted the fond
conceit that as the purported gardener
my desultory ministrations are
responsible for its lush green
sumptuousness; the courtesy most
plants extend restraining impulsive
traits trespassing on neighbours' spaces.
My reward for minimal intervention
is the delight I take in surveying the
sweet harmony between trees and
shrubs, vines and pots, perennials and 
annuals in their variety and raucous
colour. If arguments among them arise
they find their own solutions, for they
take earnest pride in their autonomy
as a confederation of cultivated
botanical specimens. And when
climax presentations are offered
I am the honoured guest, full of praise
for all I appraise from my windows
overlooking the garden world of
self-congratulatory accomplishment.

The Oversight

No one thought to explain to
Maya the expectation she would
be prepared studiously to become a
humanitarian worker by foregoing
the delights of carefree, exuberant
puppyhood. The wild exhilaration
she experienced with life's
beckoning adventures and
limitless possibilities teased her
almost as greatly as her unbridled 
joy pleased her in human proximity
under the illusion that all humans
yearned to be her champion as
she sprang upon them in an
excess of conceit common to all
creatures who instinctively trust,
reacting to their own sweetly
innocent natures. So it comes as
no surprise that the stern messages
restricting her freedoms and
guiding her toward self-sacrifice
failed to make an indelible
impression on the black Lab.
Maya's visceral ode to life would
not be tamed, and nor will she
placidly guide the blind to live
with her aid, normally. May your
life always be one of unmitigated
liberty and joyful abandon, Maya!

Beyond Entropy

Atop the rotting trunk a veritable
green nursery flourishes, replete
with miniature shrubs and
tree saplings eager to experience
life of their own in the general melee
of rank disorder. Supported by the
decomposition of earlier generations
life thrives as death marches on.
The forest, primal in its capacity
to regenerate timelessly reiterates
itself. Larvae laid by boring
beetles bring the collapse of once
sturdy conifers. Fungi make their
presence on buried, desiccated
tree remnants. Wild gusts of wind
heave hollow, rotted trunks to
shatter on the fern-crusted 
forest floor, out-competing the 
sweet-trilled cardinal with the
violent agony of another tree
felled by age and predation. The
forest is untidily littered with
remains of once-majestic hardwoods
that time and lifespan have abandoned.
Time trickles by with each new season 
invariably producing succession.

Taz The Magnificent

His name is Taz, as in, you know,
Tasmanian Devil, a nod to his
fierce resolution, speed of motion
and discernment of friend or foe.
Taz is quite capable of looking
after himself and while he's 
about it, he takes full responsibility
for the security of his companion
somewhat larger, yet dependent.
His modus operandi is to give
full warning up front, ferociously
bellowing his intent to grapple with
any opponent -- you too, bull mastiffs 
-- should it become necessary.
People and dogs alike stand back
in astounded realization they're
in the presence of a non-nonsense
heroic figure. For Taz is mighty and
he is persuasive. Among his talents
beside his fighting spirit, is his
ability to camouflage, disappearing
into the landscape, a decided
advantage over less skilled
somewhat ordinary dogs, you see.

 

Where the Wild 

Things Were

Bright eyes in a sleek head
and long, painted muzzle, its
tail a generous red torch, the
fox startles at the sound of
human approach and swiftly
abandons its casual reconnaissance
of trails it knows so intimately.
Generations of foxes have been 
familiar with the urban wooded
ravine, where stealthier coyotes
navigate within its steep gorges
seldom to be seen by hikers.
Before the woodland trails 
hosted so many curious bipedal
nature lovers those who ventured
there in fewer numbers satisfied
their aspirations to encounter
wildlife when the foxes merely
stood their ground and quizzically
examined the presence of
intruders, strange yet seemingly
non-threatening. With dread
urban sprawl has arrived those
free-to-run-wild companion dogs
large and larger, looking for
challenges of the case. Now,
they challenge the presence of
wildlife, and they give chase
-- hence the wary red fox.