Inspired by the transcendentalists

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A Poem and Photos by Grace E. C.

Representative of My Communion with Nature

The mantle clock ticks and clicks

With unease at the slowness of the day,

And a table – sporting such bumps and nicks –

Waits ‘neath a chopped up garden on display.

With oranges and greens all neatly sliced

And reds and yellows smartly diced

Among their peels and all the skins

Of their sweet opposites and of their kin,

They await the final end.

But from out a breeze pours in

Through the window thrown wide ajar,

To render a fluttering to rampant curtains

That wave and point at an empty jar.

I pull a hat of straw from off the hook

And retrieve a blade from the chopping plate;

Slip on boots of long and beaten look

Even as the clock taps its cogs in eager wait.

The bolt is raised and the door is free

To swing out creaking on its frame,

And the first thing there that the sweet air bring

Is a silky aroma of honeysuckle flame;

It dances o’r the green and dew

And taps my hair and my hat askew…

Lands on my nose almost absently –

Filling my senses with its purity –

And reminding me of spring.

Passing flowering trees all green,

With ballrooms of blossoming sprites;

And further on down the hill past I see

Sparrows twittering and tittering their delight

O’r blackberry bushes, all plump and primp,

‘N squabbling in the branches like silly imps

For the juiciest of all the treasures,

With the greatest joy and such pleasures

That their little breasts can hold.

And, oh, the field of touch-me-nots,

Luminous as the ocean in a hushing breeze!

Gently swaying, almost, I thought,

To the music of their whispering leaves.

But I go on to a bubbling stream

Of polished stones and pebbles smooth,

Where cool water, as soft as cream,

Mirrors from above the heaven’s blue.

Then splish and splash a ring or more

(When once there was none before)

Reveals heads shining pearly green

All croaking with surprise at me

As I walk through and by.

Into the thickest of trees I go

With a soft rustling of leaves and grass,

And the more I look, the more I know

That this is what God means to last:

A world of light that always shines –

A green cathedral that enshrines 

All such beauty and all the life

That the fields and trees are always rife –

And the place that I call home.

A spot ahead, it opens up

Where beams of light spill down!

I step across a log and to the center cut

Through ferns to settle on that ground.

A bath could never be as fine as this

Sunlight holding me in its warm embrace –

Caressing my all in its sunny kiss

And leaving marks upon my face...

And all about are dragonflies

Shining as sapphires in the glade;

And fluttering softly, golden butterflies

Dancing so merrily and unafraid!

And with a soft buzz and a hum

Come the emerald hummingbirds

Into the blossoms to hover there among,

To peep such sweet little words.

After a time I finally rise

To brush away a bit of grass,

Where underneath a humble prize:

A lone white bud as weak as glass.

I stoop and touch this slender stem,

Then take the knife back out again –

Though not to touch its modest face,

But instead the earth around its place –

To remove it root and all.

Back at the house in the kitchen room,

On the table my flowers lay:

The white and tiny fragrant blooms

With all their dirt now washed away.

And with the blade I slice them up

(The roots I lacked before),

And carefully, with but tender love,

Remove the blossoms that they had borne.

Protected, they, in my folded hands,

To bear the flowers from that place,

I reach the door where there I stand

With a thankful smile for their giving grace.

Then spreading wide, my fingers open,

Where shown the white and glorious tokens

That begin to rise and float away,

Into the wind like snow astray –

Back to where they call home.

To turn to seed and plant again

Back in their cathedral home.