*Thoreau January 4, 1857*
For four or five long days
I have been gone,
far away from what is real.
I’ve been lost in the sensible,
the practical,
for what seemed like years.
I need to wade deep in the water again,
breathe in deeply the air,
bathe in the sunshine,
run quickly from the lost time.
**********
*Thoreau February 16, 1859*
The hawk and pine are friends.
The wild hawk shuns the farm yard,
will never stoop to the hand,
will never share an egg from the nest.
There are those of us frightened
by the wild,
those who would destroy
what’s not understood.
**********
*There was a small seed*
My grandfather, the carpenter,
was also the farmer, the renaissance man,
from when “renaissance” measured survival.
He built and grew what was needed,
with a skill close to magic.
After all, he laid his hand to his tools and seeds
and built and grew me.
When I showed him what he built in me,
he cried.
**********
*Oh, Paris*
Here I am in this timeless city
thinking back on when we first came here.
I said that I loved Paris
in Springtime, in Fall, in Summer and Winter
whether it rained or was fair.
It is only now that I’ve returned home,
that i regret the return, wish for the days of Paris.
Oh, Paris, how I loved you.
Love, Helen.
**********
*Every Leaf a Flower*
Each leaf a flower
on these cold, frost-fringed mornings.
Spring comes in Autumn.
Leaves drift slowly down
still Autumn air, foretelling
first snowflakes to come.
**********
The lit’lest songbird
sings even in bad weather;
a true song of hope.