Burning Garbage Read online

  A spirit of optimism can’t help but overtake me when I wander through the sacred peace of woods, over templed hills, rejoicing in the beauties of nature, of outside places that can yield adventure, tranquility, or inspiration, depending upon how I choose to see.

  As I contemplate the trodden courses, I wonder, with which eye will I view this day’s wanderings? The artist in me will glorify in the unending variety of colors of that which I view, comparing the varying hues and textures, marveling at the beauty and complexity present in what a tamed person would dismiss as “just a dandelion.”

  To my artist’s eye, the majestic boulders strewn about the edges of the stream are ancient castles, timeless ruins in mossy disguises. Nature’s clouds paint the sky in pastel, feather-like touches, or massive splotches of pillowed white or deep gray, depending on her mood. Intricate patterns of hemlock over-layed stone, criss-crossed tree trunks interspersed with wild, thorny brambles, all branded by glowing rays of sun—everything I see, a masterpiece.

  If perchance I experience this day’s wandering as the poet in me, my footsteps will mark the rhythmic meter of words written by long-dead bards. “I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vale and hill …” If not a poem, then a hymn will spring to mind, and the wind and I will serenade the forest with the rhythm of countless leafy branches conducting our concert, “All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing—Alleluia!”

  Perhaps this day’s walk will belong to the philosopher I am, and I take the road less traveled, walking in the dusty footsteps of others who may have passed this way before. Much of my wandering is spent wondering—had they noticed the rusty, jagged strand of barbed wire hanging from the ancient red oak, or the ghost of a stone foundation hidden amidst the trees?

  Could they detect the faint patterns of long-overgrown roads in the forest floor, or the faded rows of plowed furrows in the aster-and-goldenrod plaited fields? Could they read the land and see the farm that once was, from someone’s long-ago allotment of time?

  From "a Jar of Buttons, an Anthology of Poetry"

  assumptions

  dirty car

  accumulating layers of dusty grime

  coating flaking peeling purple paint

  angry eyed smiley face

  etched in clay colored bumper

  shadowy back street junky

  shooting up hiding scrunching down

  on stained and torn stinking back seat

  metal music vibrating hollowly

  through dead and dying brain cells

  devoid of oxygen and respect

  dirty car

  accumulating layers of dusty grime

  coating flaking peeling purple paint

  funny smeared smiley face

  etched in clay colored bumper

  dotted with fingerprints

  pariah of the parking lot

  busy Mother shopping

  dropping kids at band and doctor

  working driving home on

  dry dirt roads dust flying coating

  dirty car