On a Fall Walk through the Woods

What The Flower Does

Consider that the flower blooms by itself
It needs no instruction on how to open
And does not want for attention to do so
Just displaying the colors, just doing what
It does best just because that’s what it
Does


Hearts-a-Bursting

Hearts-a-Bursting in the woods on the edge
Of a country yard
Red fruit hanging from open pods, twins
Love showing there
All through the woods, up the hillside grows
These woody-stemmed plants
In abundance they grow here, spreading
Love to all who see them


Wooly Worm

Brown fuzz with a streak of black hairs
This year there is no white like last
Crawling slow across the ground
Counting the days until the winter
Out of sight under leaves of grass
Keeping from the grasp of birds
A sign of changing season like the seed
Of the persimmon fruit that when cut
Reveals the severity of winter’s coming.

By Josh Lanier

path at the edge of the woods


These 3 poems were written in early fall, on one of my daily walks through the woods on my property. I go there to seek solitude and inspiration. The natural world is always the centerpiece of my work, whether it be fiction, essays, or poetry. My blog can be found at Wildcat Creek Journal.

Photo of path on the edge of the woods by Jon Bilous

Out of the Dust

In an austere habitat
of nettles and weeds,
the sun scorches
any flowers or plants
that fail to acquiesce
to the desolate scene.
Pompous and contrary,
this desert does not
bother to feign a reason
for its predilection.
Between two rocks,
nascent buds hide
until the day . . .
Mariposa lilies bloom.

By Karen O’Leary

white mariposa lilies in the desert


photo of the author

Karen O’Leary is a writer and editor from West Fargo, North Dakota, USA. She has published poetry, short stories, and articles in a variety of venues including, Frogpond, A Hundred Gourds, Haiku Pix, Sharpening the Green Pencil 2014, Now This: Contemporary Poems of Beginnings, Renewals and Firsts, Creative Inspirations, and Poems of the World. She currently edits an online poetry journal called Whispers.

Photo of Mariposa Lilies by Ron Harton

Land of Awakening

Whirling memories,
going to winter sleep.
Paved leaves
stroking
the grass still green.

Pity that on the surface
can only be seen
bare,
swinging branches,
chilled and awaiting –
for the rays of life.

Rays –
to the land of awakening:
fields of grain,
smell of meadows
and in the Summer Dream
of memorised faces.

And in the summer?
Awakened by the May sun
old oaks and birches,
– like every day –
will be able to look at themselves
in the Green Pond.

By Eliza Segiet
Translated by Artur Komoter

the author in a meadow of flowers


Eliza Segiet is a Jagiellonian University graduate with a Master’s Degree in Philosophy. She completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Penal Fiscal and Economic Law, and Creative Writing at Jagiellonian University, as well as Film and Television Production in Łódź, Poland. She is the author of six poetry collections including Cloudiness (2016) and Thought Mirages (2017).

Photo supplied by the author.

Song of the Titmouse

Light shined, and the world revolved perfectly. All seemed to be in its rightful place. A breeze drifted by, playfully picking up spray from a brook. It lifted drops off of the brilliant blue surface. The water, swift and clear, carved grooves in its muddy banks. A soothing warmth beamed down from sun, and encouraged an easy repose. Grass responded, growing at its greenest beneath trees that reached out with strong, unwavering boughs. Everything was radiant and alive. On one branch, a titmouse sang; the world seemed brighter for it.

Light gleamed, though shadows darkened. Elms and oaks bent in submission to a howling, restless wind. It swept through, lifting water up in sheets from a nearby river. Careless and confused, the current surged on in chase of a destination ever far and out of sight. In a bordering field, weeds grew in with grass, replacing flowers. Tall trees stood strong, while brambles curled about their trunks. A titmouse sang, the sound clear despite the relentless wind. Nature was heartened, and journeyed on.

Light shone out through a thick haze, tiring in its resistance against the gloom. Wet on wet, a steady downpour beat upon the surface of a stream. Unclear of where it headed, the waters simply moved of habit. Old mudbanks loomed far above what had become a steady trickle. The gale surged on, air thick with frigid water. It was impossible to tell which water was of the creek and which was of the sky. It made no difference anyhow. The icy blasts continued their barrage, leaving grass and weeds flattened as one. All remaining flowers died, too delicate for such a strain. The last and strongest branches cracked on trees with sturdy trunks. With tones of hope and determination, a titmouse spun a tune above the din. From this, creation took great strength, and still endured.

Darkness seeped into the cracks, sensing victory at hand. Air spiraled in a wind of biting cold, with no restraint. Where water had once rushed, snow and ice battered down on an empty channel. Weeds had choked out all the grass. Hollow pillars, once having reached for the sky, stood creaking, simply there. A voice called out; a single, lonely, beautiful note that wavered on the wind. It waned, and began to crack.

The call was gone, and the last of the light let go.

By Sophia Anne Charles

small grey bird perched on branch


Sophia Anne Charles is a talented, emerging writer of nature-oriented poetry and thoughtful, short fiction. Her focus is the intersection of nature, the human spirit and life’s often-lost simple observations. She resides in Gaithersburg, MD, USA.

Photo of Tufted Titmouse by Brian Lasenby

Winter

Howling winds
  Briskly blow
With winter time
  Comes the snow
Rosy cheeks
  Are all aglow

Diamond dust
  From the sky
Dancing glitter
  From on high
Soaring clouds
  Go drifting by

Glowing sun
  On snow so white
Shimmering crystals
  Reflecting light
Glistening ice cycles
  Sparkling bright

By Ann Christine Tabaka

winter trees in mountains covered with fresh snow


Tabaka Author PhotoAnn Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware. She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies. Chris has been selected as the resident Haiku poet for Stanzaic Stylings.

Photo of snowy mountain forest by Leon Tit