Spent so much time in these woods, it’s scraggly oaks, a nightmarish tree for the timmed mind of runaway dreams. The aspen’s, they simply stand, their dancing leaves all a flutter, like a school girls heart at a dance. The maples, their sprawl, taking over a forest. It’s still a place, a calm found here, I can find peace here.
There comes a time though, I long for the depth of the redwoods, their depths go for miles, standing silently strong and proud, the earthly cathedral of silent reverence, God’s beauty drips from every branch or limb.
Down the coast, the ragged edge of earth, short beaches, lunar landscape at the waters cresting repetition. Past the pier, fishing boats leave the bay, ignoring the dangers to the south; I park my car south of the petty.
Binoculars, the distance close in visual silence speaking. Scanning the treetops, the eagles perch, the hawks flight, the tips of the trees breaking through the clouds, those peaceful strokes of nature’s brush, as if Yosa Buson is busy in his work, and I am just a figure in the misty landscape.
In the trees, green black hues of forest patina, a tiny red dot, the size of a pinhead in the field glasses, by the naked eye it is nonexistent. The minute red dot, cradled in a whiteness, serene, floating splendor, inviting motion tugs at my shirt collar.
The trailhead stands waiting, traffic heading north and south, on their way to somewhere, so unaware of the solitude I seek, the calm of the Fall seasonal breeze engulfs my every sense of being. A rustic staff, picked up along the way, knotted and bent; that and my pack my only companions.
There was a day, every step in our day together, every toil in unison completion, life’s existance, romantically lived through the heart and soul. I think of those times, those things, every step on this path has a thought of what is good in this life; this existence of mice and men in their scampering for survival. Where out here alone, on this path, I am the fittest, in control of all that I perceive in my lucid ambling vision and thought.
No life grander, more gentle, making me wish to go deeper into our solitude together. The days of yesterday’s and tomorrow’s carry little importance to the now, the memories and hope fill the vision, more than the survival. As bleak a sound as that is, it’s the true depth of life I seem to be living in, where little is more the value than the trinkets gathered.
The unseen nothingness of peace and silent calm, where everything stands in motionless wonder, deeper thought prevails, understanding looms, every sense and nerve coincide in the face of life.
This path along the ocean’s edgey outline of it’s watery existance, the rock and sandy cliffs, the strewn logs, it’s rush to shore. Every lapping of a waves lifeless end, one more ripple reaches man’s existence; our thoughts are supposed to be in the same manner in the universal ponderings of man. Rippling through a universe with no end, forever bound in the thoughts freedom, it’s own life, but in my silent and sober moment between Dusk and Dawn, sitting, watching the streetlights glare; I always wonder if such is true.
One of those wonderings, no answer given, no answer sought, only in the acceptance of peace; but for today it’s a thought. On this path, every step closer to the point of life’s truest of meanings.
Hints of red filter through the blacks and the greens of the forest deep, soft translucent light, comforting, warm, welcoming. She stands, flowing gown, auburn hair floats on the breeze, she stands.
In her soft and gentle hands, a red red rose.