Indiana Rendezvous

(poem suite)

I: The Hummingbird Porch

The place to which I awaken, this Wednesday morning,

Must be more than just a porch, the east-facing porch

Of a farmhouse floating, like an atoll, in a verdant ocean

Of rolling winter wheat, two-foot-high cornstalks,

And the lush incipience of soybeans...

A porch fortified, against the incursions of city life,

By the comforting presence of stately, eighty-foot-tall trees:

Conical spruces, spreading sycamores, silver maples, locusts —

Keepers of this region's treaty with nature.

Indeed, its deep, soothing, smooth-fluting wind chimes

Transposes the breeze into eternity's ever-evolving symphony,

And its feeders stir with the chirping scurry

Of hummingbirds frenetically flapping, hovering,

As they reap the nectars of ecstasy,

Stabbing their needlelike beaks into the orifices,

Extracting existence's sweetest elixirs,

Which the mistress of this mystical aviary/arboretum

Replenishes, lovingly, whenever the reservoirs run low,

For these ruby-throated summer guests from Mexico,

Not even remotely concerned by my proximity,

So intent are they to sip of the liquid azúcar —

Nature's territorial emissaries,

Flurrying the air, with reverberations from their wing-tip vortices,

Often four or five fliers vying, simultaneously, for the prize,

Not three feet from where I've surfaced, on a swing,

One day after disappearing from urban observance,

As I listen to the world turn through glory's revolutions.

Indeed, this timeless, magical porch delights me.

It must be Eden or, if not, the place where sleep takes us,

When we awaken into our dreams.

II: Turkey Run State Park

Roaming this Carboniferous region of west-central Indiana,

We're admittedly not latter-day pioneer hunters

Primed for an easy harvest of wild turkeys

Gathered in the deep Mansfield-sandstone canyon bottoms —

The creek-lined runs hundreds of feet down,

Nature's paths through the wilds —

Watched over by magnificent, precipitous cliffs

Engendered of sediment gradually compacted, cemented,

Supporting ancient hemlock groves...

Admittedly we're not,

Nor are we survivors of the Pleistocene,

When glacial meltwaters rushed down from Canada,

Their gigantic erratics (boulders in swirling backwash)

Scouring out potholes, formations —

The sculptures of today's Turkey Run State Park.

No, indeed; we're just adventurous visitors,

A new trinity of friends,

Come to partake of this sacred place's sublime vestiges

(The remnants of Earth's parturition —

The seminal elements of Creation),

Scale and descend heights, navigate rocky streams,

Funnels, all but impassable, for recent floods,

That require balance, guts, muscle, endurance,

In this eroded environment

Which could easily consume us, dispose of our bones...

Until suddenly, we've finished, surfaced, emerged,

The three of us weary, exhilarated, enthralled —

Done, our two-mile hike, done.

Now we're home again, at the farmhouse,

Ready to grill salmon, relax, with glasses of wine,

And wait for day to decline,

Send us night's lightning bugs, owl hoots, stars,

Let us take time to unwind, reflect on our exploration,

And imagine what it must have been like

To witness the beginning of life.

III: Evenings Outdoors

Summer evenings, we choose to sit outdoors,

Usually on the west porch,

Off the studio/barn, where we do our artwork.

The two of us decorate gourds we grow,

Employing various techniques for painting and weaving them,

To create intriguing pieces we sell at fairs.

We enjoy our quiet nights, so far away from everywhere.

Our farm is on the outskirts of town,

Six miles from that community of eight thousand people,

Which boasts a 1930s downtown of offices and shops

Surrounding a cramped square

With the county courthouse at its very heart.

Something about watching myriad fireflies igniting,

Turning the dark to a vast field of incandescing halos,

Has such a soothing effect on the spirit,

As does hearing owls hooting and coyotes howling

Within range of our savoring.

And as for the sharp, lambent stars,

They could be fireflies not yet fallen from the sky

Or just recently risen from our vision.

Either way, mere gazing dazzles our imaginations.

But what we enjoy most is sharing our thoughts,

Just having, making, taking time to converse, touch,

Sitting, side by side, on a wooden love seat.

You'd be surprised how satisfying it is —

Something as simple as this — for the soul.

It slows down everything, lets you catch your breath,

Focus on the stuff that really matters most —

You know, the things that don't cost anything:

Looking, listening, feeling, painting and weaving dreams.

6/27/08