on location

an autumn day in missouri, post-oak

bedecked in orange

monarch butterflies in migration

~

a summer day in the high alps

glacier melt pooling 

turquoise

~

front porch steps, picking tunes on my martin

blue sky fades to gun-metal

fades to violet, fades to grays, fades away

a day like this

older and slower, walking 

gives more pleasure than running.

walking in the woods

gives more pleasure than i can say.

sitting, back against a sturdy trunk,

face to the sun if it's cold, in the shade

if it's hot, is another woodland pleasure,

perhaps more suited to the older me

than the young, but i recall a day like this,

late winter, not quite spring,

after a long chicago winter, walking to the park

with my friend. the accumulated snow

of winter had melted, the air was soft,

the ground was dry. we sat beneath a sturdy oak

and felt a rush . . . of spring, of baseball,

of shedding heavy coats, of being rid of black buckle boots . . .  

i don't know what we felt, but something wonderful.

that was sixty winters ago. i'm less stunned

by season's change, but aware and appreciative

when  the anxiety-inducing polar vortex dissipates.

today i walked up the wooded lane to fetch the mail,

for the exercise, for the pleasure.

the ground still sodden, still frozen in places.

no sitting for me, but the trunks of the old oaks

were talking to me, how about a hug? they seemed to say.

would a pat suffice? they nodded

(it may have been the breeze). i ventured off the lane

into the woods, patting and murmuring thanks

and appreciation, perhaps mutually, appreciation

for shade, shelter and company. one oak

in particular called to me. i patted, pat pat,

and in patting i marveled at the texture of the bark,

and the warmth of it on the south side,

and, conversely, the coolness on the north side. pat, pat, pat.

it took me back sixty years, that warmth—

i'm taken back each spring.

the boyhood memory is sweet, also melancholy

for what was and will never be again. 

martha says, you did it, you don't have to do it again.

she is right, but it's good to remember.

she also says, don't be afraid of your feelings.

if my woods-walking induces some sadness,

that's part of it, part of the experience, part of life,

part of each passing day, but only a part. 

we, the tree and i, being about the same age,

share knowledge. we know something about life, 

if only a little. i know how to be a man,

the tree knows how to be a tree.