Wild Roots of September
Become a
Premium Member
and post notes and photos about your poem like Daniel Henry Rodgers.
Wild Roots of September
Daniel Henry Rodgers
Through personal growth and the inevitability of change, I try to capture the moments of clarity in my life. Seasonal changes bring on a sense of nostalgia, and I wonder what I think about when I visit the past. Do I seek progress and reform? Do I have hope of stability and conformity? Is there a blend of mindfulness, acceptance, and constant growth? Come along as we explore the passage of seasons.
Blessings,
Daniel
"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven." - Ecclesiastes 3:1
====================
In raw dawn I emerge
crow-thoughts
pecking skull-bone
black as plowed earth.
Farm-stench floods –
dung, hay and blood –
primal musk of life
and death intertwined.
Yet in this first breath
of day there’s a peace
and so stillness
rising from the land
like a satin prayer.
Twin mountains loom
granite-toothed giants
gnawing at the pale sky’s
underbelly.
I but a mere-minuscule mote
of flesh and bone am
dwarfed by their
ancient scarred faces.
The tractor snarls
like a metal-jawed beast
that devours field-flesh
spitting soil.
My hands are rugged roots
that guide its hunger
plowing furrows deep
as grave-cuts.
But the earth yields
willingly, a quiet surrender
turning in my hands
soft as a child’s hair.
Autumn’s talons slash
the trees;
gold-crimson wounds
blaze on high.
Apples hang heavy
as bull-hearts
gorged on summer’s
stored fire.
I pause beneath
their burdened boughs
grateful for
this fierce abundance.
In this moment
I breathe deeply
feeling the earth’s
heartbeat beneath my feet.
As the day fades
night falls –
a raven’s wing.
Fireflies pulse with
earth’s eruptive heartbeat.
I breathe darkness
tasting wildness
the land’s raw essence
on my parched tongue.
But even in the darkness
a flicker of joy –
the quiet dance of stars
stitching the sky.
I stand still
absorbing the night’s clarity
finding peace
in its gentle, expansive face.
Seasons wheel
grinding years to dust.
Farm fades
a ghost in memory’s must.
Transplanted, I –
a storm-bent sapling –
root in suburban soil
alien and tame.
Still, I learn the ways
of this quieter earth
the song of crickets
and the patient stretch of vines.
Amidst this change
I find a new rhythm
a softer, yet equally
recondite connection.
And still, nature’s howl
reflecting through hills
in Longwood’s manicured gardens
in Brandywine’s patient
stone-tongued flow
and in the defiant oak’s
iron-bark stand.
As the cycle continues
September returns
eternal as breath
painting the world
in flame and blood-gold.
I stalk these quiet trails
remembering
the wild beast
that still prowls within.
In this reflection
I find not fear but hope, kinship
a shared pulse
the heart of the world in me;
and in that heartbeat
I reclaim my home.
As I hear the crow calls
heralding the dawn
I arise anew
whole in this sacred cycle
ready to welcome
the dawning new day.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment