why to visit America's Southwest

 Truth From the Four Corners

the Southwest is calling!

21 years have passed since our last Spring trip

to the Four Corners in March,

there is a clarity to the Southwest,

water is the Great Blurrer,

as back East feet of rain in a year

erodes what is before us,

and energizes plants to round the clean lines

that rock and wind can make,

here only inches of rain come a year,

here geology slaps you in the eye:

mesas of russet red sandstone hold high

and are encircled by talus at their bases, 

synclines, anticlines,

memories of volcanoes in rocks beneath the feet,

below uranium and coal wait to be used,

rivers carve deep and true,

until there are canyons, one Grand,

and the Goosenecks

where a river has created a serpentine wonder of gorges,

whole national parks hold the Fantastic

in rock sculpted over eons,

blessed with the memories of the wonder of water's passage,

and where there is enough water, it empowers cottonwoods and agriculture,

another clarity the Southwest shouts is of the touch of the Indigenous peoples,

who found home here and left their buildings and artifacts

to give us clues, insights into their commonality with us,

and into their profound expression of the truth of the world

that their buildings asserted in their every line,

the truth of what the dance 

of Sun, and Moon, and Earth, over the year

reveals to us of the grand design above, below, and before,

it is of what our days should mean,

we live now in troubled times

within which fear of our dark sides,

of our own mortality,

can make us feel alone and lost,

how wonderful it can be to be in the Southwest

where we can grasp and hold the awe that is Earth's gift to us,

from the wonders of the natural world,

and from the wonders of Indigenous peoples in the past,

and their descendants still here,

all who deserve to have their gifts known.

by Henry H. Walker

February 5, ‘26

what to remember?

 

the torrent of the present

how do we know what's worth the trouble to remember?

the question reminds me of standing under a torrent of waterfall in the Smokies,

my "now" a reality of cascading cold liquid upon my head,

and I am only in the moment,

that's almost how I feel living in the present

when so much cascades down upon me,

how can I notice what needs to be remembered?

I just visited with first cousins about their mother and father

who have passed away from our present,

I particularly remember the mother,

with every ounce of will available to her she loved her children,

cared for them, sang and played for them,

she saved everything she could,

including a box of string "too short to use,"

she filled countless boxes, 

now lost to those of us who might find

what we belatedly want,

one of her sons describes their filling 

every Goodwill donation box they could find with those boxes,

we are daunted and undone by the challenge of figuring out

what of the torrent upon us now should be remembered,

the present is a visitor who doesn't pause for us.

by Henry H. Walker

February 3, ‘26

the challenge of remembering

 

links in a chain

everyone deserves to be seen,

everyone deserves to be appreciated,

it gets more challenging to do so

years and decades after they've died,

there's a charge that works on me now

to have my generation carry the heavy load

and share stories and insights about our parents,

about who they were able to be

with what the world threw at them,

and how they did their best to be, and to do,

I use Zoom to record about an hour of family

reminiscing and visiting about the patriarch and matriarch

within a branch of the family,

stories shared call up other stories,

lessons learned, lives appreciated,

then offered through online streaming

that's easily accessible and shared:

no popcorn, but there are tears, laughs, "aha" moments,

and in the comfort of sitting around the digital "fire,"

the stories hold us and remind us

that their lights still can shine within us,

we are each links in a chain,

and we should explore the earlier links

to which we are still connected,

even though the circle of our current lives

can feel complete in itself,

as a grandparent I celebrate the forging of new links

to reach toward an indefinite future.

by Henry H. Walker

February 1, ‘26

agendas

 lists, and avoidance

everybody has lists,

either literal or figurative,

and we rank what we choose to do,

it is easy to deny, to ignore a choice,

why let someone's request of us

galvanize us into action?

we slip into procrastination,

into being daunted by the effort asked for,

so we don't invest precious moments in another's agenda,

we choose to be ruled by the easier path,

I love a cartoon strip which argued

that there is a sixty second rule,

if a job can be done in 60 seconds, do it,

and  the strip concludes with how easy it is to decide

that an action takes 61 seconds,

avoidance then can win over the dealing with it all.

by Henry H. Walker

February 4, ‘26

awe in a bud

 

the promise of the bud

an inch and a half of sleet

whitens what it can of the ground:

leaves, sticks, dried grasses

clutter a view that isn't the soft white of snow,

sun, and above freezing temperatures today,

have released the thick icy varnish from branch and trunk,

I sit outside and study the pink dogwood's lines against the sky,

all so spartan and as if drawn in sketching lines

that maximize how to fill the space they have earned,

at the tip of many branches a spherical bud

waits patiently and asserts its promise,

 

within it, in some alchemical magic, awaits a transformation

that should happen three months from now,

when potential exuberantly releases itself,

when leaves erupt all over the tree

to capture the light and the energy

that allow gratuitous beauty to emerge,

flowers to celebrate a new season,

the world I want to know is all about awe,

I love to see it become itself and dazzle us,

how also good it is to see it full, but awaiting its time,

as an educator, I saw the tight buds of my students,

and I reveled in the opening and expressing of their promise.

by Henry H. Walker

January 26, ‘26