This week: Observations Along Our Walking Trail Edited by: Fyn  
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Since my woman's world is perceived greatly through the emotions and the senses, I treat it that way in my writing - and am often overweighted with heavy descriptive passages and a kaleidoscope of similes. ~~Sylvia Plath
I wouldn't call myself a synaesthete in the sense that Nabokov was. But I'll talk about a sound as being cold blue or dark brown. For descriptive purposes, yes, I often see colors when I'm listening to music and think, 'Oh, there's not enough sort of yellowy stuff in here, or not enough white.' ~~Brian Eno
Of the individual poems, some are more lyric and some are more descriptive or narrative. Each poem is fixed in a moment. All those moments written or read together take on the movement and architecture of a narrative. ~~Marilyn Hacker
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An early morning wander; dawn tentatively reaching out from the east. Supposedly, it will be warm today, yet now, I'm glad I wore a sweater. For the air is cool, far cooler than the earth and my feet disappear. Dream-like I meander, in no hurry, for the day is young. Morning fog-like white swirls and eddies 'round my feel. I look back and see I've left a wake. Cross the field, dead corn stalks rise in the mist, a black and white photograph entitled "Fallow Field" or "Forgotten Harvest."
First day of bow season here in Michigan. Hubby's out at his stand, but here, an antlered head rises above the fog: silent, motionless, listening. Antlers are all I can see, forking upwards. A crack of branch, footfall. Not ten feet away, a doe eyes my interrupted journey. Two statues, we pause, then a heartbeat later, she whirls away, leaving a swirl of fog and memory.
Full dawn and now colors have seeped back into the scene. Birches and the elms are already yellowed and golden, yet vines twining up the trees are vivid green. Wood ivy not yet burnished to autumn red. Distant high voices; children trekking off to the bus--school beckons.
Down the trail, past the paved fork curling off to the west, the pond steams, a tea kettle whose whistle is blue heron cry. Egrets and sandhill cranes, not yet winter-white, glide and stilt through shallows at water's edge. Later to leave than the Canada geese who are already arrowing high across the skies, the cranes bow to different instincts.
Wooly bear caterpillar inches his way across the trail, his golden-brown middle wide, leaving only the tip of his head and tail black. I can never remember which way the saying works, but I ponder on it and think it means a hard winter. Do almanac writers read wooly bear and wild goose?
Fresh Kona coffee awaits at home. My fingers are chilly, but wrapped around my mug, they will warm. And I shall settle in to write of this October morn whilst the details are still fresh in mind's eye.
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Poetry: October 02, 2019 Issue [#9790]
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