how well the race is run

the relay race of parenting

how hard it must have been to be in that greatest generation,

to have to deal with Depression and World War,

and all the prices that had to be paid if one were to endure,

today I touched a small piece of that price when I imagined a bit 

of how little our parents had time with their grandchildren,

my wife and I were born with our parents near 40,

for them marriage, and children, had to be put off

while the world struggled to right itself,

I’m not able to really imagine starving 

or being blown up or shot,

or of PTSD shell-shocking me,

however, I can cry when I think of a father away from a child,

or of a father never knowing a grandchild,

for me it’s like how much easier it can be

to grasp the tragedy of one than to grasp the tragedy of many,

I watch my son near 40 be extraordinary as a dad,

today I hear of him taking his near 4 month old son

for a stroll to a waterfall near his Minnesota home,

and I tear thinking how much my father would have loved

to be there to see that, and to celebrate it,

as parents we run in a relay race, and we know our stretch,

we know something of the hand-off before,

something of the hand-off after us,

too often we can’t know enough 

of how well the race continues to be run.

by Henry H. Walker

April 17, ’13

making hay

the glory of spring

throughout March, and into April,

the nights flirt with freezing,

and the days hold back from an enthusiasm of heat,

so plants hesitate to come forth,

no stalk of asparagus is yet up in the garden,

in the last week, though, heat returns,

eighties and sun seem to snap their fingers

and the trees take off from sharp lines to fulling leaves,





distance blocked by green factories

ready to make their own hay,

usually, dogwood blossoms wait to follow the leafing,

this year they both crowd to the front of the line,



at the same time my cherry trees

erupt like great white torches

which draw tiger swallowtail butterflies to them,

pairs of butterflies circle each other

and spiral up and down like double helixes,

this spring is noisy with birds

who love the food plentifully provided

and tend their eggs which each hope to be predator, 

and not prey,

pine and oak pollen coats everything,

turns rain puddles yellow,









and annoys many into allergy,

we humans don’t stop when it’s dark outside:

we work into the night,

we humans don’t stop in winter

and we can exhaust ourselves by spring,

plants and insects, birds and grazers, thrive now,

we humans need summer and fall to fill our bodies,

though our spirit fills with the glory of spring.

by Henry H. Walker

April 12, ’13

where flowers are. . .

a wildflower centers

even one wildflower

can be so exquisite

that no photo, no words, 

can really hold it close enough

to let it sing

the way it does

through the eye to the soul within,

and when, like today, every step on a trail

reveals garden after garden

of mossy rock ledges showcasing flowers,

of banks of trillium and blood root,

of hepatica and rue anemone,

and more, and more,

every step is a new showcase,

and then, when we climb past that extravagance,

within the drier world of heath

trailing arbutus subtly bedazzles us,

like bees to nectar, many are drawn here today

with book and camera and tripod,

and easy sharing of discovery,

for like the poet John Clare, two centuries ago,

we know that where flowers are,

what we know of God is, too,

and something deep within us feels released,

and free.



by Henry H. Walker

April 6, ’13

moments hide within every step

destination, and the journey itself

“you’re almost there,” he encouragingly says to us,

while Joan and I mosey up the trail,

marveling at this flower and that,

a few minutes ahead is a waterfall,

and we are going there,

we will stop and savor it,

and we will turn around after,

so it is a destination for us,

yet it’s not the reason for our hike,

this whole dell of wildflowers in old growth woods

climaxes our stroll today here in this gorgeous valley,

the waterfall the literal highpoint,

what jars me about his innocent, well-meaning comment

is an assumption that the end is most real

while I feel every moment of the journey should be glory,

I love the waterfall when we get to it,

and I snap picture after picture 

to hold a bit of its storm-fed glory 

spotlighted by a bright afternoon sun

whose return we love,

I also love each flower--

the sharp lines of the trout lily,



the proud white trillium,

the ubiquitous hepatica,

the exquisite lacy phacelia,



I stretch out onto the ground to photograph them all,

a goal can get us onto the trail,

yet we often need to stop and sense the moments

that can hide within every step.



by Henry H. Walker

April 5, ’13

the present of water

to write in stone

I like to write in stone,

though I don’t do it much,

mostly I “etch-a-sketch” with my students

and I usually don’t know when what we’ve sketched together

holds in this memory and self enough to matter,

I’m proud of stone steps I laid down to the creek:

no mortar, careful choosing and placing,

a rightness to their look and function,

much of a stream is the present of the water,

and it can flow fast 

and the water before me, that is, soon isn’t,





the rocks endure and shape what the water can do,

though in the long run they too are ephemeral,

I recently looked down 

and a rock at my feet looked out-of-place,

when I picked it up it looked to be a hand axe,

carefully crafted unknown years ago

by someone gifted to write in stone,

and then it was lost,

until the craftsman in me found it,

and I joy that what we craft might be found again,

though loss is deeply inherent

in the stream of each life.



by Henry H. Walker

April 4, ’13

to inventory the neglected

release the pressure

all sorts of pressure are just underneath my surface of self,

the energy can be subsumed in the busyness of action,

like steam to power the machinery of work and duty,

when I start to release myself from doing,

I loose my control of the turmoil within me,

no apparatus then forces the energies to do work,

so in the middle of the night

I wake up and fears and doubts work at me,

I feel fearful for what might happen,

I can feel guilty for what has happened,

I sense the dark forces within me,

I remember this and that decision,

I work to inventory what I have neglected,

to face what I fear,

so that in my psyche the energies can flow true.

by Henry H. Walker

April 4, ’13

the "aha" in child development

Max Thorin Walker, At 3 Months

in our arms

Max feels solid, sure, and stretches himself with careful abandon,

as he begins to come fully into his physical self,

no longer quite so soft as two months ago,

then often ready to curl up as if to be back in the womb,

now he lengthens and increasingly moves his body to suit his whims:

his hands and arms, his feet and legs, open and close, initiate and withdraw,

move to express who and how he is as an entity opening himself to the world,

and venturing action upon action to see how it goes,

though much seems random and exploratory,

he moves the way a dancer moves after years of study,

with each part of the body a tool with which to express,

how a randomized intuition, plus stimulus and effect,

produce such actions is a wonder in itself,

his eyes, like his hands, move as seems right

in the eternity that every moment is for him,

when I have him in my arms,

my heart holds me enough that I know

to change my rhythms to fit his, 

to follow his lead,

so I meet his eye with mine,

his smile with mine,

his laugh with more and more of my own,






we dance together in a connection

that works for him and overwhelms me

with just how wonderfully joyous Max can be,

and with how honored I am that how I am with him 

helps him to be there with me enough

to smile, to laugh, 

and then to know how and when it’s time to move on,

for us, opportunity meets preparation,

as our three months old grandson pulls himself up to new plateaus

where he feels sure enough to break free

into noticing, then approving, than laughing,

and when it is one of us whose eyes he meets

and who then gets a smile, a laugh,

smiles and laughs cascade back onto him

and for long moments nothing else matters,

as eyes meet and happy approval bubbles out of both of us,

a piece of rainbow or the wall, or even just a patch of the ceiling,

also can get a smile and a laugh,

and Max’s default position seems often to be joy in just being,

as I have him cradled in my lap,

like this writing pad is now,

his body held by my crossed left leg,

his head on my knee,

I watch him to learn from his attention

more of what’s going on inside him,

his eyes focus first on one hand, then on the other,

he makes the connection that there is a connection

between what he sees and what he feels,

his left hand just days before found its way to his mouth

for the thumb to be sucked,

and he sucks his thumb now easily and readily,

and he seems now to discover

that he can be conscious and decide what to do with his hands,

moments later he discovers his feet,

I watch him think and move,

I hold each foot, move it around in front of his eyes a few times,

then I hold my palms up, facing his feet, and just in reach,

he methodically presses foot onto hand, withdraws, repeats,

the next day I watch him closely again, and he remembers,

concentrates, works at getting how impulse leads to action,

and he begins to get that some of the world might be in his control,

inductively, he discovers,

and I watch him learn and apply each lesson,

he works hard, every muscle, every neuron firing,

it’s like he runs a marathon between every nap,

or maybe it’s like he goes 100 miles per hour,

then shifts into Park, closes his eyes, and conks out,




child development can reveal itself in “aha” moments that deserve goose bumps.

by  Granddaddy, Henry H. Walker

March 31 and April 1, ’13