The Lumberjack Trail to Beechwood

Filtered light through hardwoods,


The humming of late afternoon in Autumn,


Wind stirs the branches of the bowing beech


And I ponder this burning aspiration


to capture the moment of


The old trail, never far off course,


Veering in perpendicular shadow with


Undergrown worry,


The old wolf oak is but a stump


amidst the damp grassy path,


And its limbs await the lumberyards.


I've known every corner of the solidago field,


The nodding nettle, teetering vulture,


Winterberry, lamb's ear, blackberry thorn,


Fallen white pine, the owl forlorn,


And all of New England's asters seem to agree


That when the air stirs under the cool whim of impulse


There is never a fairer time.


Where the jay brings in the blue day


And the foxtail hay seems to sway


Amongst the clovers as they sit at bay


Quietly watching the clouds drift away


And I make sure to sing, dance, laugh, and play


Skip on my way to the woodhouse to pray


With applejack brandy


And cold nose a snifflin',


The crows in the cornfield,


The lumberjacks chipping.


I'll make my way down this old weathered path


To the top of a hill where wildness once laughed,


And sit on a carpet of fern


Mesmerized


In the burning blue blaze of the beeches.


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