The Wind in the Helderberg’s

 

The Wind in the Helderberg’s

 

 

A sunset’s golden glow

exposing remnants of

Autumn’s crimson leaves.

 

Grass clippings smoldering, smoking

erupting in the twilight

of falls tawny flickering flames.

 

The weeping willow crying out

in a contemptuous moan

grinding wheel grating against

hardened steel grumping

a throaty groan.

 

The wood pile in urgent need

of small kindling and I,

I deftly chopping

dead decaying branches.

 

You,

feeding the fire of the fifty-five gallon drum

carefully examining the rotting tree trunk

finding a fossil.

 

Of what,

some prehistoric animal?

Or, only the antler

of some other season’s deer.

 

Connecticut city boy turned country gentleman

you couldn’t resist using my

newly sharpened axe

to try an punch holes for air

in the bottom of the thick metal drum.

 

“Look!” You say to me.

“Look!

I really love this life

the hard work the

sense of self accomplishment.

 

Look!

Last year this time I,

I was unemployed,

Now I,

I own this home,

I,

even go to church on Sunday”

 

The smoke billows up curling

lazily into wispy cirrus clouds.

 

Listen!

peeling white birch bark

gentle rustling leaves

bare trees.

 

“Listen!”

I say, “it’s that now

your heart,

it belongs

to the wind in the Helderberg’s.”