my heart's a busting

 

The Smokies in Mid-September

I don't think I've ever been in the Smokies

in the middle of September,

high summer has been mostly when I've immersed

in hiking. flowers, views, animals,

the noticing of the nuances of what long days offer then,

today we drove up to a saddle of the Balsams,

Soco Gap, above Soco Falls,

just within the Cherokee Reservation,

that land barely saved from greedy appropriation

by hungry Americans

who thought that if they could, therefore they should,

any land that could be farmed, mined,

maybe exploited with enslaved labor,

was mostly lost by the indigenous people,

this high valley, and waterfall, saved, somehow,

at least till now,

it's a small remnant of the greatness 

that was their world 

for long time,

I noticed at the head of the trail to the waterfall

the flowers of summer's end:

black-eyed susan, goldenrod,

so much jewel weed that its habit is so profligate

like we would call that of a weed,

but its every individual flower, perfect,

Joe Pye weed grabs my attention,

and that of butterflies,

I love mountain pictures with flowers in the lower half,

so I snap pictures that carry my eye and heart up and out

and ground my soul in the color before me,

Fall is coming soon, 

and some of the trees and shrubs

already start to shift away from green,

I love green, for at its heart,

sun is harvested to allow life to be,

yet production and consumption only express part of who we are,

what we do with our moments with our lives deserves to flare

with the exuberance of the Autumn that is coming,

mostly I visit these high ridges today

to set myself up for upcoming transformation

when that of color bursts its truth

upon the forest,

upon the mountain, 

upon us,

the next few days bursts of leaves 

start to fall from the trees,

still into their work,

mostly its tulip poplar leaves,

a few brilliantly yellow, most drab,

rhododendron give up some of their leaves

as if echoing the yellow coming,

for now fall's transformation is only hinted at,

tomorrow is coming, but it is still today,

hearts-a-bustin' quietly shout

that we should glory in what time we have.

c

by Henry H. Walker

September 4, ‘25