we summit today

 the high country in August

hiking within the high country of the Smokies

can have a magic

that can elevate the spirit

as surely as the body.

trails through the rain-invigorated spruce-fir forest

reveal more shades and universality of green

than we can hold easily in our hearts:

moss everywhere, lichens, profusions of flowers,

for it is August now,

high summer for the high lands,

the National Park Service has worked hard

to hep the trails resist the degrading of erosion

and fit the steps to what foot and leg can handle,

today the Appalachian trail was incredible:

a knife-edge of vertical strata,

of uplifted sedimentary boulders 

and igneous quartz intrusions,

views to right and left jump out at us

while valleys and peaks assert who they are,

not daunted by the higher slops where we are,

today is of summits: 

physical, botanical, experiential,

this day is of dreams and of light.

by Henry H. Walker

August 5, ‘23

the land, the forest--recover

 toward Grapeyard Ridge

yesterday a valley opened itself to me,

part of Greenbrier, the watershed 

of the Middle Prong of the Little Pigeon River,

I have started down it several times from the Appalachian crest,

I followed an old manway down and down

until a maintained trail revealed itself,

much easier to follow than the earlier rock cairn marked passage,

today we followed old logging ways

that snake up and down ridges, along small streams

that tok some rock-hopping to cross,

often the trail was beguiling tunnel

within overarching rhododendron,

enchantingly dappled with flashes of golden sun,

the valley softy echoing the many families

who farmed a living out of these valleys,

a bear's world touched ours twice,

the still hot air pulled so much sweat from me

that we chose a 5 miles experience

over another mile or so,

I feared donating even more liquid to the journey,

I was pleased that my muscles, heart, and lung fitness

allowed me to move across the earth

with ease, with appreciation,

with joy in the moments allowed

this valley returns to what nature does

without the harsh hand of our mastery,

taking more from the world than it wants to give,

I imagine 50-100 years from now

that this valley will return to close 

to what the Indigenous peoples knew

and to what the pioneers first saw,

the woods today hint what will then be shouted.

by Henry H. Walker

August 3, ‘23

the individual and the collective

 apart, or a part

I take stock of myself, of my life,

I feel better about myself when I am doing:

checking "completed" on the lists I make myself,

I like to write a poem, such as this one,

to record, as if in a journal,

what I'm feeling now

what I'm thinking now,

as if the words on paper

validate my still being here,

self-consciousness why we're allotted our time here,

my meditations argue otherwise,

that what we should be about

is submerging the individual into the collective,

that life itself is but a way

for the universe to look back

and notice that the way forward is all that matters,

for only the way forward can get us back 

to the oneness from which all comes,

the part is only a part,

and being apart is not as good as being together.

by Henry H. Walker

July 28, ‘23

it's not trespassing

 

asserting welcome

on both sides of our property are wooden signs:

"Welcome, Way To Park," with an arrow,

"Welcome, Way To Road," also with an arrow,

 each showing the way,

all written with natural sticks,

as if each message is from the Earth herself,

my parents built this cabin

in the middle of the old wagon road,

hard by the quickly dropping creek,

known for generations as "Mill Creek" 

for virtually every house along it had its own tub mill

for turning dry kernel corn into meal,

and thus the bounty of the fields into meals,

these signs are radical,

piercing to the roots of what we should be about,

asserting the openness of welcome

instead of the shutting down of a selfish "private," 

my mother and I put up the "welcome" signs,

though one brother of mine felt strongly

that property is owned and is really just for the owner,

declaring that when Mother moved to a nursing home

he would take the signs down himself,

whereas we believe that the land and the present

are but borrowed from the future,

as if what we have now is a trust

and that we are stewards,

charged to hold all together

rather than just self-indulge.

by Henry H. Walker

July 31, ‘23