Broccoli, Artichoke, Soybean, Leek,
Onion, Pumpkin, Daikon, Asparagus, Sugar-Snap Peas,
Cucumber, Tomato, Avocado, Squash:
A plethora of Mother Earth’s delectable
bounty, bathed in the scarlet yawn of the drowsy
solar watchman. The crops were ripe for plucking
from their cozy dirt dens, plump and tender, their
most vulnerable state at the peak of their very
lives. Maple leaves whirl through the rows
of tilled soil and the produce so neatly
packaged in soiled cribs, at once so helpful and
so troublesome. The brown, crinkly leaves will rot,
will replenish the soil, will fertilize the seeds
of next year’s vegetables, but as they are
now they are in the way of my Autumn
Harvest. But the rabbits and the squirrels and the
badgers and the frogs gather the leaves into a large
pile, for conversion to fertilizer later. They are merry workers,
probably because they know I will reward them with
a few carrots and celery, but there is no shame in work
that happens to give one a reason for working.
I gather the produce in a wheelbarrow
fashioned from the skin of a deceased
olive tree, delicately situating each crop,
for they bruise easily. My companions are in a
jovial mood, laughing and dancing through the garden;
as they gather leaves and sticks and fruit and bugs;
I mark their closeness, their familiarity, and I
mark it as my own. Pleased with the display,
I join them in song:
“Who are you, who wander here –
Lost, alone, and incomplete?
Hark this tender, lulling sigh
Lilting lithely through my trees,
Bidding you seek out a form
Following swiftly behind
As it extends caring claw,
Helping you go on your way.”
For a moment all is silent, when the groundhogs –
possessing a phonographic memory – join in my
merry tune. The others catch on instantly
and we parade around the garden beneath
that jovial twilight, which seemed to pulsate
to the beat of our cacophonous harmony.
But suddenly the monkeys fled, and the deer followed
suite, then the entire choir vanished into the forest
and I was alone. Yet I was not alone –
A muscular man of dark visage, hair only early beginning to grey,
stumbled headlong from between the trees and
trampled my Cabbages. I had not called him
intentionally, but he came, eyes narrowed in
exasperation and irritation. I regard him uneasily,
for there is something in the way that he is that
makes him appear unfit for the Pasture.
Breathing hard, seeing me, is a sigh of
relief to the strange man, bent over like a
broken horse run in too many circles. He limps
forward and forcefully grabs my wing,
Glaring up at me as if the one in control –
Teeth clenched down on a bleeding tongue,
clashing with the red of the sunset and the red
in his eyes. But, still, I see a weary soul, and so
I offer it a fresh turnip, but the turnip is
brutally batted out of my caring grip
“Who are you, breathless man, lost in my
forlorn forest, set apart from time and space,
when the sun is soaring home to roost behind
a world pristine as it cleaves its own life to live?”
The man opened his desert-cracked mouth –
a wheeze that reeked of some festered disease.
“I don’t have time for your damn poetry
or your stupid mind-games. How the Hell
do I get out of this forest? Huh? You
damn hermit, you’ll tell me how to leave this
place right now, or I swear I’ll show you just
what a desperate man can do! Got it?”
But I didn’t quite get what he meant
or why he said what he meant
or how he could think he could do it.
“I would be happy to lead you from here
to the joyful confines of the Pasture.”
The man was earnestly oddly displeased.
“Jesus Christ, you freak, enough of this!
I just want to know how to leave,
not go to some freaking pasture!”
And then he struck me. With the look of
the Wild in his mouth, he struck me with all
the might he could muster. But, to me,
‘twas as impotent as the nip of a flea.
“Trust my word, for the Pasture
is where you don’t know that you
would want to be. Here, take this spinach –
it tastes of honey and dew – to replenish your
strength for the journey ahead. Why do
you run? Why do you fear? If you’d
simply look behind, then it becomes
clear that nothing is chasing you but
your own worried thoughts. Find yourself
calm – rest, for my garden will do you no harm.”
With the dawn of dusk his face relaxed
and the spinach hesitantly received from
outstretched claw, fluttering into his shaking
palms like the falling leaves – but these leaves
are verdant with life. A sad smile cracked
his lips before he opened them to accept
my gift – But why? Why does he pull them
back from hungry mouth, why do his eyes
grow round as the moon overthrowing the sun,
why does his entire frame tremble as he
trips to the ground and scrambles away –
across to the edge of my garden, pointing
a toothmarked finger my way, muttering.
“My god, I know who you are.”
The spinach leaves, birthed from seeds of
the Pasture, a brilliant blend of green
and gold, are sullied beneath the terrified man.
“Oh, son of man, why should you fear me?”
It seems I had appeared to him one of his brethren,
for now he observed my talons and wings and eyes
and feathers and beak for what they were, and not
in the way he had painted them in
his warped mind. “Stay away from me! I know you!
I know you!” And so now he knew me
when he didn’t before. “Please, just have a
leaf of spinach; it will help.” But, like a cornered
beast, he rushed at me; I did not move, and he
continued on until he reached my ancient
wheelbarrow, and rent a handle free.
“Calm yourself, man, and ask why
you fight me.” But the man was no longer
a man, lunging and shouting and swinging
the wheelbarrow’s handle at me. At first he
missed on purpose, though I expected the blow,
and I knew it was coming when it did come,
and the wood of the olive tree splintered
against my hollow bones, and clanged
in sorrow across the crimson forest.
The vainness of his efforts reached the
man, now without a weapon; staring at
me for seconds with the shock of a child
caught in an act he could not believe he
committed, The poor fool ran for my forest,
believing I would pursue him – but I did not.
I watched him until his flailing, hobbling
figure was lost – even to me – under the cerulean
curtain of night descending upon the final
faint glow of dusk. And then, I saw them –
drawn by his confused panic– the silky,
rippling muscles of the White Lions,
descending after him – into the Wild. But
my care has somberly returned to the garden.
With farewell, so I greet
twilight’s blessed hearth with a tune
to remind the worked their need to rest;
I return in turn from whence I came
until the next poor wandering name.
“Draw thee hither, greying Sir,
When twilight bears its dusks.
Down in droves the wrinkled trees
Drop crunchy, holed, decaying leaves –
Why do you tremble, turn to flee,
Upon the merest glimpse of me?
The end of day pulls fast its grip,
But further into vines you slip
When ‘tis better you not needless stir
And hushed go to Yonder Side.”
Morning's Early Dark 