Bill Fell 6/25/20 and 7/3/20

There is a Buddhist practice called “Aimless Wandering.”  But for the undisciplined practitioner, the discursive thought process is seldomly interrupted.  No problem; write a poem.

Shiny burnt-orange rivulets of resin,
Of ooze, they steal my eye
A sap sickle breaks off with a helping hand  
So what now? . . . Is it the same tree?

Where I grew up, these guys all
Dropped their layers of thin tan skin
Tons of long pink pointy leaves, messy, aromatic
Seasons of shed.  Here instead,

We’ve got rough thick canyons of dark bark
Parallel ridges of deep death, 
Bluffs shade gorges hugging their host
Having settled in for a long haul; and

Leaves, fair-er-hued, more bulbous than I recall
Soaking up this ambient heat, and no
I’m not smelling IT.   But aren’t those old aromas
Merely illusions of my past?

No roots sticking up, neither then nor now
Both eucalyptus situations barren of undergrowth
Little question who rules these clusters of earth . . .
But for how long?  For any of us?

Stop, stare, notice the discrete moments of me
Of all we non-native species.  And
For this afternoon, I still have a bike path to walk
Amongst the blessed patches of shade.