The front porch seems out of bounds these fall days,
Temperatures down, even when sunshine
Breaks bright - early mornings, late afternoons ;
Oldsters seek shelter of the mid-day haze.
From my easy chair, I'm like Robin Hood
Surveying my own deep Sherwood Forrest ;
Inside, I'm looking west out four windows
Wondering, when will dead leaves all be down?
When the hawk is up, leaves come floating down;
Even a lite breeze unlocks them from trees.
From in looking out, it's the first blizzard,
Needing no snow shovels, but bamboo rakes.
Leaves, the engines of life, fulfilled their role
Of being chlorophyll's chief enabler,
By changing carbon dioxide into
Breathable oxygen, sustaining life.
My forrest, within sight, is mostly oaks,
With oaks comes squirrels who scurry about
Collecting acorns and plant everywhere.
Are there more squirrels then ever? Seems so.
Oaks don't exhibit sharp coloration
That maples do in my far off site-line :
Norway maples vivid in their yellow,
Sugars deeply blaze a yellow-orange.
This urban forester can only look,
I'm saddled to a chair or a walker.
Once, far off hills engrossed my pensive eyes,
Now a single tree, green or fall color,
Must satisfy my appreciation
Of art, nature's art, firmament's pigments.
A long life draws from an inner vision
Where important scenes are mentally stored.
Ronald C. Downie