the adolescent forest

 the forest, starting over

the forest in this part of the low valley

has the unruly brashness of the adolescent,

the beeches and hemlock have held continuity with the old forest,

though both have now been assaulted by change,

the beech have just grown old

and the biggest near us have succumbed,

passing away from asserting endurance and dominance,

except for the hemlocks saved by the national park service with insecticide,

the hemlock have all too often

given up their lives to the attacking adelgid:

fallen, rotted, blocked trails for a time,

then nine years ago this week

a great fire swept through these woods

and we lost much of the forest,

weakened trees keep falling in the great winds

 too often prevalent here,

the forest is starting over,

new growth on the hills around us

shouts to us to not attempt 

passing through the crowd of young trees and bushes 

jostling toward the sun,

brambles of blackberries and other brush opportunists

bedevil both trails and off-trail,

the change is fascinating but I find little comfort in it.

by Henry H. Walker

November 29, ‘25

stories on the rock

 

our mountain home

our mountain home is perched just above LeConte Creek,

within a curve where the stream drops abruptly,

in high water the force of the drop shouts in a roar of power

within which tumble great stones

who thud against each other and shake the earth

as the sea calls them home,

an early settler on this place used 

the power of the dropping stream to grind corn,

at the same place where the tub mill stood

the community built a pump house to use water 

from the creek for nearby homes when needed,

my parents found this spot and when it first went on sale claimed it,

they even bought the easement so only we in this area own to the creek,

we built our house in the middle of the old road

so we post signs on our upper and lower borders 

to welcome folks to pass through

to the national park or back down the mountain,

climate change has dialed up the frequency of storms, even droughts,

those stones who have not been excessively pummeled in the tumult of high water

still wear a light coats of moss and lichen,

whose endurance tells me of the luxuriousness 

of the excessive growth of a rain-forest,

though here it is more echo than the reality of so wet a world,

now, today, many stones in the path of high water's enthusiasm

are cleanly grey as if untouched by life,

scoured clean of even the long tales of lichen,

I appreciate their clarity of stone by and for itself,

but I love more the bonding of the lichen and the mosses,

I, too, want to endure and leave my mark.

by Henry H. Walker

November 26-28, ‘25