Writing poetry in the woods, sauntering steeply and silently, a little yoga and a hot fire. Good boots required. Wildly Still Retreat: Sunday December 8th in Fremont County, Iowa. Contact Jack at email@example.com to find out more.
Autumn Trims Her Tatters
(Becoming a Naturalist, Part 45) by Jack Phillips
Instead of being helpful to my consorting naturalist as she worked an inventory of urban spaces bursting forth in primal wildnesses (native fertilities latent not lost) I distracted her with a poem about knowing not-knowing and not knowing not-knowing and finding self-losing and to humor me she took a photo of the page but still I fell in lost and wandered myself between lines and in that moment proved the worth of Te Ching on a coffee break.
My book makes the claim that the Cosmos becomes self-awakened in poetry and that must be some heck of a poem (but okay fine Lao Tzu) so I read that same poem to my friends this morning after a bit of yoga in the woods and being the season of wander (daylight fair and footfall crunchy) we happen upon basking snakes and follow woodpeckers pounding make our way to grandmother oak in the gray-soft brown woods with coral-berries and raspberry canes.
The Cosmos awake or not I do not know but the breath that draws words across the page and twitters against the blue and chitters in thickets and bubble-up springs (crusty edges tuning-up ice harps) and dry cottonwood sighs and ancient poets writing in short phrases this day writes long lines weaves long walks on gentle rises (some steep) and commas and stops can get in the way as November makes a grammar of tumble and flow a prose-poem:
When autumn lately trims her tatters songbirds tug her loosened frays dream-frogs wear a muddy slip sleeping hickories butter the sky oaks blush in russets narrow days soften winter pokes a finger in the eye of the Cosmos closes a little fattening darkness lays the weight of ebony against the paling sky sun enough for faces and land enough for longing desires slide easy on earthen curves and foxes grow ghostly egos efface longer dawns open to hazel days and passions expand to gather more light.
Photos by Emily Hergenrader.