The last leaf has turned,

most have fallen, though the oaks, some of them,

hang on to theirs until spring.

These aren’t the woods of Sherwood Forest

capable of swallowing a band of Merry Men in a gulp,

these are hardscrabble Ozark woods,

capable of swallowing hardscrabble moonshiners and a copper still,

at least in theory, they are abiding to me.

I would say the woods

have a sagacious air about them,

a wise-in-their-years look,

the browns being muted, yet subtle—though

there is nothing subtle about age,

and wisdom is a big joke, coming as it does

when it does no good, and some would say

ascribing sagacity to a stand of trees is overreaching.

I forgive those who might say that,

they haven't spent any great time in the woods,

holding secondhand notions gleaned from here and there. 

Anyway, what does it matter, but to me—

I ascribe sagacity, and these trees

are my old familiars. I remember them in their prime,

sprouts gone wild from an unkempt and neglected pasture.

I watched their slow-motion rise, and my own.

These old bears of trees are like me,

they've stood by while generations have come and gone,

I'm talking about the deer, squirrels, rabbits—ancestors and et cetera, 

the passers-by, of which I will be one, someday.

At the same time, these old bears may fall—

why, they come crashing down at the least expected times,

not just during storms, any old Saturday morning

or Tuesday evening will do. Creak. Crash!

More firewood for me, though, truth be told

I let the furnace do the lion's share anymore, saving the fires

for those cold mornings when M and I can enjoy them,

our hollowed bones no less fragile than the hollowed trees themselves.

But, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. This is a blue sky morning

and the woods are simply a joy to see.

Being a blue sky morning I record blue sky sentiments.

Come a gray sky day, when the soul contracts,

I’ll write of that. Or, maybe not. No need to state the obvious.