This summer I saw mountains
   Thrusting out of the sea,
   And mountains mellowed with age,
   Rounded, softer, quietly returning to the sea.

I saw Redwoods: massive
   Majestic, alive,
   And marveled as I held seeds
   From which they thrive.

I wondered at hands that could be so old
   As those that carved the living stone
  In rocks by the sea;

I stood in awe hundreds of feet
   Beneath blankets of branches
   Of ancient trees.

I listened as mountainous streams
   Sang songs of the sources
   Of life-giving waters.

I saw flowers too many to name
   Running up and down grassy hillsides,
   In and out of pine-scented forests,
   Along rivers,
   Through meadows,
   Etc.
   Etc.
   Etc.*

But why am I telling you this?
   Because, of course,
   I must prove I am free,
   That I can see beauty
   all around me.
But it seems
   The less I feel free,
   The less beauty I see, and
   The louder I shout, “I am free, I am free”,
   The more I scream, “I see, I see”.
It’s all a game,
   You see;
   you see.

I just try to follow the rules.

                                                        ­        August 1, 1970
                                                            ­  *(edited 10/11/2014)

Stark among the lush of youth

tall, unashamed

no leaves twirl downward

no fertile blanket of rot

to feed saplings

fresh with green sprigs.

Many seasons

they have tasted your sustenance.

Do they regard your wisdom

whispered in the mountain breeze?

Do they believe tales told of

life on the hill,

of cycles of torrents, droughts,

penetrating frosts and mountains

of drifted snow?

Do they devour the lore

falling among the leaves?

Initiative is as necessary
As a bird that must rely
Upon its natural wings for it
To take off and to fly
A ship equipped with power
To withstand the frightening gale
Would bear no earthly purpose if
It ventures not to sail.
Forests would, indeed, decay
If these do not retain
Moisture from clouds that bring
Growth-sustaining rain.
A poet would be sore-beguiled
If he should sadly lose
Interest in the spirit of
His own creative Muse.
So is ones talent for success
By which one tries to live,
And could be only realized
Through sheer initiative.

The wind floats through my
fingers, tickling my sticky skin.
My children fall to
grow up strong or
become fodder for the
small, nimble creatures
that scramble up and down
the length of me,
my family, and friends.

The air soon turns cold
and frozen water falls from
the sky. My friends lose
their green and turn
the color of fire, but I
stay the same, even as
the biting cold shakes
their shivering skeletons.

Sometimes hairless bears
meander through our
home, making funny
noises far less pleasant
than that of our bright
winged friends that
sing jubilant phrases from
high atop our arms.

I wonder what they see,
those graceful spirits that
glide through the air
and clouds above. I
wish I were as free as
they; with wings to take
me far up towards the sun.