maybe we should chronicle?

 the push for tomorrow

we are not in control:

Spring is fully upon the land,

trees indiscriminately spend their savings

on the pollen that lightly covers everything,

in the hope that an infinitesimal percentage will find the right host

and more of themselves will be here in the morrow,

insects crash the gate

and elbow their way everywhere around me,

on my legs, across my skin, onto my paper,

for this is their time,

and my reality is but a blank canvas 

upon which they stumble, and they, 

like the ubiquitous pollen,

spend enormous resources

so that the tomorrows to come include them,

today is of the quiet pervasive pollen

and of countless insects who we didn't invite to the party,

though I have to realize

that it's more their party than ours,

we are just uninvited guests,

maybe our value can be to chronicle the festivities.

by Henry H. Walker

April 3, ‘25

the rough touch of the chainsaw

 an unwitting casualty

the mountain laurel,

who has graced the edge of the creek

at our mountain home for generations, isn't there!

it must have been an unwitting casualty

when they took out a great, troubled red oak,

I find it sad that those with chainsaws

might not have even noticed this casualty

from their battle with the tree.

by Henry H. Walker

April 2, ‘25

our betters

 

blood root in blossom

so much depends on a bloodroot in blossom. . .

so far we usually only get to the Smokies

when it's convenient to our schedule,

wildflowers have their own schedule,

today we were blessed with an intersection of the two schedules,

two bloodroot held off while their peers flowered

and opened for us today,

many other wildflowers joined them,

yellow and white trillium, miterwort, violet, 

and more and more,

I often feel like I am a lesser entity

and that the blood root are my betters,

I love it when they open,

and I can be around,

I am sad when I realize

the peak of their show was two weeks ago.

by Henry H. Walker

April 2, ‘25

The Tail of the Dragon

 

great wrinkles of mountains

"Highway 441 is closed,"

announces a small sign,

right after we've traveled about 280 miles,

we just need to step over

the main high ridge of the Appalachians here,

and now we can't,

the interstate that slips around the eastern edge of the Smokies

is troubled with delay since Helene washed out

too much of its underpinning

east-west travel is reduced to two lanes, one each way,

with traffic probably backed up at least an extra hour,

the two lane road over the crest of the Smokies

should usually take less than an hour,

instead we drive around the west side of the Smokies,

sometimes directly following the rivers and TVA lakes

and sometimes roughly following the rivers,

we wind up and down ridges,

slowly, many a 15 mph sign,

roads that have more turns than anyone from the flatlands

could possibly conceive of a road's needing,

roads traditionally follow watercourses

for water finds a way we love to emulate,

instead we spend 11 miles on The Tail of the Dragon,

318 turns as if it wants to know every in and out

above and below every contour line,

an almost intimate embrace of the slopes

wrinkled upon the land,

after an hour or two of the mountains making us deal with them,

the road re-finds the Little Tennessee River,

where the 20th century damned the river

so that we could harness its power,

on The Dragon, twisting and turning,

with motorcycles thrilling to the challenge,

we cross under great power lines,

strung straight between the ridges,

from the dams to the city,

while we on the road get to know the mountains,

and a bit of why these wild mountains

still remember who they are

and daunt our arrogance with the truth

of their folding and unfolding.

by Henry H. Walker

April 2, ‘25

precious cargo

 the flowers loudly call

Joan is an inspiration:

her body has decided that her right knee

can no longer function as well

as its design specs imagine,

so she consults doctor and physical therapist, and herself,

and finds out what she needs to do to persevere,

she hears she needs to keep walking

that she needs a staff to stabilize her walk,

so that the rest of her body doesn't crescendo down

in sympathy to the distortion

her 50% knee demands of the rest of her body,

today, she doesn't know how far her knee will let her go

up into Greenbrier where her beloved wildflowers call to her,

Joan makes it 95% of the way into Eden,

the phacelia almost swallow her in the exuberance of their flowering,

we often challenge each other to drive safely

for we feel they have "previous cargo,"

Joan, I am so pleased that your "precious cargo"

once again made it high into the wonder

that wildflowers in the Smokies can give so fully to us.

by Henry H. Walker

April 3, ‘25