summer time. . .

the long days around the summer solstice

fall and spring are blunt in their lessons:
the resignation of letting go,
the hope of starting anew,

now the long days around the summer solstice
are busy and less obvious in their lessons,
it’s time to make hay, literally,
as I see grand tawny rolls of hay
in field and moving down the road,

the sun spends so much time in the sky
that every leaf that can works overtime
for that first synthesis upon which
kingdoms of plant, animals, and people base themselves,

wealth for long millennia was what
one could gather and hunt from such casual bounty,

then the farm manufactured the wealth
with which life could exist and be bettered,

industry shifted from the hoe to the tractor,
to industries of steel, aluminum, and plastic,
and now to the power within circuits of chips,
where electrons dance in a synthesis
like photons dance in photosynthesis,

as I sit here by the creek,
lowered by the thirst of all the growing uphill,
sweat flows from me,
and opportunistic bugs bug me with their own needs,
they, like we, crash the party thrown by the dance of the sun upon the leaves,

the rhododendron here choose this time
to jewel their hard curves and prosaic somber leaves
with rose-tinged globes of exquisite white blossom,


time scatters the fallen blossoms upon land and rock
as if in welcome of the season change coming,

 

higher up the mountain, laurel blossoms scatter on dry ridges


where other flowers also assert themselves,
 






this morning the air is clear
and shafts of sun are sharp,


a red-cheeked salamander, distinctive to only these mountains,
reveals itself to our eyes
as they make sure our feet navigate a wet rocky area,
 


by late afternoon clouds have come and gone,
and stayed just enough to soften the light
which finds its way through the greedy nets of flowers
who, in their looking after themselves,
can deny others’ hopes
and still create a whole
whose gestalt pleases the artist within me
and intrigues the scientist who wants the truth of it all.

by Henry Walker
June 19, ’12

a pirouette at the Solstice

midday at the swimming hole
I watch one rosebay rhododendron blossom
fall through the air and
drop down, down into the cold river,

I watch it, as it perches on the flowing current
with the tenuous touch of the water strider,
on the water and not in it,

the blossom flows with the water
as light rapids drop over resisting rock,
 

the blossom actually pirouettes:
who it is responds to moving air and water
and it spins as if in a dance,
 
the rhododendron created it for a purpose and now has no more use for it,

yet because I look,
and because I see,
the random universe produces beauty
almost casual and thoughtless in its offering,

what value do we have to the universe
more than to be one who notices and appreciates what is?

by Henry Walker
June 20, ’12