Splendor’s Trail Poem by Alan Strand

I never noticed before that I missed
So much of the boundless beauty
That was laid out at my feet
Like a royal tapestry
On my running trail.

Oh sure I saw the splendor
Of nature’s canvass
And knew that I should
Stop, look, listen, and smell
Even breathe it all in,
But I was far too busy running.

Noonday’s Autumn sun
Weak from an intense Summer’s radiance
Is straining to warm
The forest depths
All shiny and wet
From Night’s cold and damp blanket.

Where the sun’s rays
Filtered through the greeny canopy
To make its’ solar embrace
On this quiet and peaceful place,
An ethereal fog danced
As ghostly elf-wisps,
Silently teasing the unbroken solitude.

The trees slowly but shamelessly
Bare themselves
Of their golden foliage,
Layers of lifeless leaves
Drape themselves gently
Over their children,
Or simply flutter down
As an organic carpet
Over bright verdant mosses
As a thin offering of shelter
And hope of life-giving decay.

Some leaves are drifting
Submerged in clear creeks
Doing fish-like dartings
And performing playful pirouettes,
Moving in ebbing solemnity
Towards the tranquility
Of the watery grave of all things-
The sea.

The ducks and gulls and crows
Proudly prance or just stand
Watchfully on single skinny legs
In the shallows of the creek mouth,
Squawking and singing and
Splashing like excited children,
Oblivious to the funeral train of leaves
Below them.

Others busy themselves
Moving to and fro, a crow
Alighting on a lofty perch
Chided them all,
Especially those pesky daredevil pipers
Who flit about so close and carelessly
To the water’s muddy edge.

As I stand on this wooden bridge
To nowhere in particular,
My train of thought is sweetly broken
By the amblings of
A good many dogs and kids,
Their parents in tow
Saying pleasant hellos
And drinking up the last warmth
Of this dying year.

Even the tall shore grass
Once vibrant and responsive
To even the smallest puffs of breeze
Knows that winter is coming fast
And lays down, grass at half mast,
In swishing swirls and unkempt curls
In passive protest.

Only now I hear
The tiny babbling of the brook
And I understand
The lonely heron’s cries
Over the wind in my ears.
I sense my place on this earth

And feel a strange but peaceful contentment
Standing on this blessed firmament.
Where was I before?
Why did I hear without listening?
Why did I view without seeing?
Why did I lack the sense
Not to take in all this beauty
Into my yearning heart?
Was it because I knew that
Mother Nature would always be there
To nurture me with all of her splendor?
Or was I afraid that I was undeserving,
Not worthy enough to let myself confide
Through my broken child’s eyes
And share this life force’s healing?

Is this truly the awakening
That I have secretly longed for each Spring?
Only time will tell.
But now I have to move along, slowly,
And take in the death of what is passing
And really see the beauty of it all.

I feel like my heart is metamorphosing
Like a butterfly inside, and
As surely as the seasons do
I am changing too.
I have much running, anew
With lively spring in my steps,
Towards, not away from
A fresh and eternal Spring day
And all the love and hope
That it is sure to bring.

(Inspired by Shoreline Park, Port Moody,98/11/07)