Part One
Follow me away
this four-lane road rush
trucks tires whir bump
drumming asphalt
thrumming past
an incessant hum
like water over a fall
push prod pulsing
gaining faster
where
there
is
no sweet grotto
no silence
no end
Don’t you see
we cannot keep
up this pace.
Pull over
by that dirt lane
ahead.
Stop.
I know a path
leading west
toward day’s end,
where a winding track
drops down valley
to a quiet haven
a narrow brook
still trout linger
under grassy banks
willows hanging
low below here
the world quiet
we will watch water
slowly pool
and flow
toward
great
rivers
simpler progress
more fitting solutions
thoughts we forgot
in our rush
This world
was well settled
before our inventions
ripped roots loose
built roads, bridges,
levies, dams.
Stole every accessible inch
of worth from the soil
the very marrow earth’s bones
sucked dry dug torn
refined filled replaced
and if it was green
we cut all the old growth
down
Old Growth
Part Two
i think
the world is burning
and we are all inside.
walking in autumn
i rustle leaves piled high
my path made
and lost buried under fallen
step by step
with one small
puff of sky
dry, so dry
we are lost
we don’t go much
into real woods anymore
where only animal paths
wind to through dense
swamps, bogs,
ridge and valley
clear wanders
along stream banks
stuck with muck
up steep slopes
around about deep forests
so easy to lose
your bearings,
wander off lost
if you don’t watch
your way
we’d rather follow
well-trod paths
old logging roads
abandoned rail lines
left after all the good logs
were cut, graded, sawed
prime ore dug
shipped, smelted
the sweet scent
of a verdant past
long hid beside
these remnant lanes
marks made
by my father and
his father before him
for us to trust
we look back to see
trails our ancestors
left us to follow
behind
lead astray
away the woods
there is little wood left.
i think
the world is burning
and we are all inside.
walking in autumn
i rustle leaves piled high
my path made
and lost
buried under fallen
step by step
with one small
puff of sky
dry, so dry
we are lost
Old Growth
Part Three
let me take you
into the trees
there where every
story ever told
lies within stands
so stately
as if orations
holding our roots
visions hopes dreams
all revealed
within
here you might
feel the moss
under your feet
sniff the wet wind
smell all life
fecund
ripe
in summer
each tree
filling a wood,
whistle-sings wind
whispering dawns
fluttering days
through to sunset
dark night
where owls
perch high
wait
birch black oak
poplar pine
maple oak elm
basswood fir
talk odd dialects,
each their own
chatter greetings
in new ways
every day
each season
a new chorus
reflecting sun or frost
heat or rain
breeze or blow
tipping shifting
their limbs wobble wave
a Gregorian hum
announcing “I am here.
We are here.
the forest”
Old Growth
Part Four
this still
hot August
midday steaming
fern forest glade
sounds creak crick snap
whoosh
we walk
pushing aside
buck brush
hazel nut
stumbling ruts
surveying a little piece
of green earth
to find some small spot
swamp side
a mossy stump
where grasses
divide damp dirt
from sogged
under mud
long lain tipped over
trunks taken
decades past
by wind or rot
lie fallen
like you or I
might fall
someday but not
today we rest sweat
no memorial
here where they lie
one hidden berm
moss humped lichen
brown black mushroom cups
stand off gray rotted bark
stretches east
a hundred feet
settled deep
busy becoming
new forest food
may have been
an aged oak
or pulpy poplar
stately elm
we have no obituary
stone slab recording its time,
still, it lies still
feeding the forest
nurturing progeny
as we feed our eyes
so quiet we can hear
a leaf’s fall
we are at rest
seeing the forest
watching
when I die
I dream to lie beneath
this canopy
cleaved open to the sun
a stream of rays
driven past leaves
slicing green shadows
through damp air
beaming me still
steamy smell
sweet rot
perhaps someday
a gust will twist
another of these
great trees
right to the roots
rip its beginnings loose
tip up twisted under
wrenching dark wet earth up
make a bed for wild
violets where once the sun
could not reach
so it goes
so it goes
surely violets
will spring next season
or a tiny frog pond
will find this crevasse
where once roots grew
or perhaps a rabbit
will nest it’s young
in the shade
of the fallen
sentinel
so we go all to earth
all the while
life moving on
and when I die
I will lie
beside them
for even the finest
old tree topples,
lies silent
standing tall
only a memory
becoming reborn
old growth
—
Patrick Stevens live in a small town in Northern Minnesota spending much of his time hiking, biking, hunting, fishing with his two cairn terriers. He retired from teaching and educational administration in 2008 after thirty years in the profession. Spending time out of doors in all seasons and reflecting his experiences through poetry is his art.
