The trees in my neighbourhood provide a stunning display at this time of year; they also speak of the rhythms that we dwell within, yet so rarely acknowledge in our busy lives….
I have seen the colours of New England in the fall:
The pink granite of Eastern Maine, the rouge,
Blush and shiver of forest and lake.
I have crossed the White Mountains of New Hampshire
And stood speechless before the vast palette of the
Never-ending valleys of Vermont.
I have seen the liquidambar in my driveway –
Absorbed the nuances of its reds, golds and myriad nameless
Hues, transforming in the gentle evening breeze,
The breeze that makes me wrap my arms around myself
But not go inside; I want to know
The breeze that rides the cold this tree shares with me,
The cold and earlier twilight that rings the bell
And gives green permission to dress up for a final
Flourish before the plunge and mulch,
Before the sleep that slows the sap
And calls a halt to signs of life,
And life hidden, whispers from deep to deep.
This wisdom, I imbibe not from the grand glory
Of mountains and valleys beyond comparison,
Whose beauty’s power is awe
But from the liquidambar in my driveway whose
Majesty yearly waxes and wanes;
And, in the waning, I feel my mortality.