A walk in the woods I take,
Leaves crackling and crumbling beneath my feet.
The shoots that grew from the stumps
Of the gum trees I cut last spring,
Are filled with leaves turned dark amber, red,
A peculiarity the scientists can explain,
Though I prefer its mystery
And the metaphors I see.
It is cold this morning,
A bit of ice was on the car,
And I presume the insects are dead or dying,
Crumbling with the leaves perhaps,
And yet some eggs, some larvae,
Must remain hidden, lying in wait
And maybe even some adults named Lazarus
Wait their chance for reprise.
I wonder at the life of bugs,
Though the birds and frogs have figured it all out
And have adapted their stomachs to their cycles.
Indeed, even now, birds call here and there.
The ranger at the park, who took
His courses at the college,
Can imitate their calls and tell their names,
But that is more than I will learn, and still,
I delight to hear them.
It was a pleasant walk, and now I am back home
But mystery, but wonder, but delight-
And the greatest of these is all three,
Woven together into woods.
George R. Pasley
December 02, 2020