October in the Smokies

the leaves sing   

the calendar seems to move through days in abrupt
jumps
that I don’t notice at the time:
day follows day with routine tick-tocking time
which lulls me into not noticing that chunks of existence pass,

in the swelter of summer
fall is an abstract idea
that only a few early leaves mention as they turn
 as if to remind us of what’s coming,

now in October, cold clear air
comes in periodically as if to anticipate winter,
yellow reveals itself
 in rhododendron, basswood, and poplar leaves low on the mountain,
the yellow takes over tree after tree
as we hike along the upper half of the mountain,

I particularly notice the birch along the stream
who seem to be of a primal golden world,
the stream embraces a leaf as it falls into it
and hurries the leaf away downstream,
it fast forwards the dropping away,
somber green mossy rocks hold the tawny yellow leaves
 as if to display them so that we have the time
to notice and appreciate the beauty within the transience,
I take pictures of people and place
while flashes of yellow gold tumble through the air like confetti,

 

there’s a sharpness to the world today, and a sharpness to my memories,
both in the sweet trueness of what has been,
and in the sadness of what is lost,
turkeys and bears forage these woods with us today,

to fill themselves with seed and nut for the long nights of winter,

while I work to feed myself with memories
around which I can huddle
 as if before a giving fire amidst the taking cold.


by Henry H. Walker
October 6, ’12