The March wind sets the Halyards clanging against the masts, speeding across open water into the Marina where boats strain against their mooring lines wishing to break free in springtime exuberance.
Off Season, quiet now, I am the only guest in this old river town, the Innkeeper welcoming me with gentle queries, interested in my visit.
A detour, not as much unplanned as previously unexplored, an unlikely route from here to there.
..
..
..
..
Fog blanketed the eastern shore, sun rising slowly the early blues and yellows muted. Wetlands of the Great Dismal, following the canal south quietly, slipping through the vapors as though nothing has changed, comforting.
This is water country, land is an afterthought, oft-times ignored, all history is on the meandering waterways running black and slow to ponds and high-knee cyprus.
..
..
..
..
The Fisherman
Fields large, ditched and flat
line the roads I drive
barren now, waiting to be worked
with the returning warmth
Through the little farm towns
with post office and mercantile
following straight
30 ft. Canal Road
This always surprises me
this low country, unfamiliar
and unexpected, like a
story yet to be written
He was there at lakeside, the fisherman,
standing eagerly by his boat.
Four pounders he said, an eastern shore accent
I partly recognized, waters up 58 degrees
they’re moving to the far shore, gravel bottom,
got to drop those eggs
The lake is big, very big
storm clouds building, wind picking up
Dangerous water he says, comes up in a minute,
never know just what to expect.
He’s not ready to float yet
Something about floating strangely resonates
I stand there, partly talking, partly thinking
a cold wind pushing hard
Is this what I am feeling, un-moored, loose,
as the storm swirls around me
..
..
..
.
.
..
Where the river meets the ocean, fresh water flowing over salt, keeping their separate personalities for a time in this mixing zone as I walk the shoreline of this great estuary discovering artifacts of sea and land.
..
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
Beauty is Often Found
in unlikely places,
it is all in the process
of looking and seeing
It took some hours
walking over this ground
in that drab period amid winter and spring
then slowly I noticed, first small things
later intimate groupings and landscapes,
present all along, but hidden from me
The blue in a shell
a line in driftwood
trees pummeled by wind and wave
Natures compositions requiring only
a settled mind to see
Beauty requires overcoming bias
moving toward that which is
uncomfortable and unfamiliar
approaching with an open heart
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
and if there was it led forward life, and does
not wait at the end to arrest it
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles
Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
..
Longleaf Pine
Pleased now to be in this forest of pine
tall and straight, rough bark shining
gray-brown in sunlight
leaves resplendent; long, green and glistening
Not here by chance, no
a vision beyond immediate gain,
a will to protect and preserve allowed
me to walk beneath this canopy
Where is that will now,
is it still possible to see past today,
do we not feel the pulse of life around us
enveloping this one small planet
By fire this is renewed
an ancient and profound image,
these ashes, this charred trunk with
saplings emerging, a new life from old
So it is,
we are all stardust
recycled in an order we fail to understand.
Part of all that has come before and all that is yet to come
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
.
..
..
..
Beauty is Found in Unlikely Places