Autumn Ends

Memories of autumn camping

Finally

Our drought is ending.

All day it has rained

In wind whipped squalls.

My beloved firs and cedars

Once loosed brown needles

But now hold new growth tight

As if grasping green raincoats

Against the storm.

While

 Alders, vine maples, and cottonwoods

Let go of autumn

In golden wet showers of leaf

Turning pavements to

Painter’s drop cloths. 

Thus winter begins

Here along the Salish Sea.

My heart begins to ache.

I mourn

Not just the loss of this autumn

But three decades of October,

Three decades of my life,

When

Like spawning salmon,

Every year we journeyed

Far and high from salt water

To the clear, sweet waters of Nason Creek,

A misnamed river 

Rushing noisily down from these peaks

Named Cascade.

Again was the time of bears

Foraging for final meals

Before their long sleep.

Our old blue backpacking tent

Had traveled thousands of miles,

More than many people,

Certainly unlike all but the very few

Who have traveled by bicycle from

Anacortes to Bar Harbor.

She was a living thing

That tent,

My best friend.

I was happy to let her rest

Each fall

There beneath the pines

By river’s edge.

I could feel her joy of return.

I am old but oh how

I remember:

The swing of my axe,

Foraging for leaf, twig, cone,

The careful teepee build of fuel,

The evening’s first flames.

The sweet charred flesh of trout,

Potatoes cooked amongst the embers.

Sitting ‘round the fire

Drinking wine

Far into the night,

Tuning our little radio

To those far flung stations

One can only hear then.

As that mountain air grew

Sharp, clear, cold

We donned coats,

Added ever more wood,

Made the flames leap higher,

Scooted chairs closer

Where the mercurial fleeing smoke

Stung the eyes

Forcing one’s gaze upward

Into the infinity of blazing stars.

Regretfully we retired to

Down sleeping bags 

Beneath a down comforter.

As the moon ever watched, 

All but the river’s rapids

Came silent, came still

With the Fahrenheit plunge 

Well below freezing.

Here the swift swoop

And strike of an owl

Edged my dreamless sleep.

Some years 

Nights were not so cold.

We lay in rapture

In our little tent

As the night cracked open

With thunder,

 As lightning lit us up like

X-rays.

Then came the deluge.

We marveled at remaining dry,

Grateful for the fine craftsmanship 

Of our cozy gypsy home.

Most mornings

I emerged wearing layers

Beneath my old plaid coat,

Hands gloved.

I drew water,

Lit the propane stove,

Made French press coffee

Which we drank in chairs

On that river’s east bank,

Waiting out the slow rise of sun

Until the facing forest lit afire,

Until rapids sparked with light,

Until our backs were finally warmed.

All day it has rained.

I mourn.

I mourn.

Author's Note

Seriously ill with a cardiac malfunction, all day I remained quiet and watched the rain. My spiritual heart turned sad with memories and this poem emerged. This may not be the final draft, but I wanted it down on paper while the mood held.

Reviews

[Jansy]

It's like stepping into a living memory wrapped in rain and firelight. The imagery is stunning.

You’ve made ordinary rituals...making coffee, stacking wood, watching stars, feel like a private symphony of the heart. It’s quiet, it’s patient, it’s beautifully human.
Nicely penned,
-James☆

[RomaJ]

Michael, reading this felt like stepping into one of your autumns myself. I could see the rain, smell the pine, hear the river rushing past, and feel the cold pressing in around that little tent. I love how you let the landscape carry memory, how every detail of the campsite..your axe, the fire, even the radio..anchors decades of life and ritual. There’s a quiet ache in this poem, a mourning for both the season and the years it holds. And yet, there’s gratitude too. It’s beautiful how you fold the ordinary and the eternal into the same breath.

I found myself lingering on lines like “She was a living thing / That tent, / My best friend”...it’s so tender, almost like the landscape and memory themselves are companions.

Beautifully penned,
..Roma

[Thomas W Case]

Beautiful imagery. Powerful and poignant. Stay well, my friend.

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thanks Thomas, good to hear from you.

[Desert Knave]

I like this a lot, and especially like the line "She was a living thing ... That tent". We used to go up to Smith Mesa here in Arizona and I recall just how nice it felt to walk in the tent, which was, till we set it up, just a big, dirty tarp. Glad you shared this. ~Jim

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thanks, Jim. Yeah there’s that saying: walk a mile in my shoes. Mine is shelter a thousand miles in my tent.

[Chris Shaw]

Watching the continual rain during illness has you diving into your memory bank for better times. Michael, your poetry is exquisite. Your spirit is in these lines. Your love of nature and in particular this place where you camped in that beloved tent, shine through. The simplest things in life can bring the most pleasure. The coffee on the river bank at sun rise has an immense appeal to me who has the river Thames coursing through her veins. I hope you have better health and soon. Thank you for posting.

Chris

[Michael Sun Bear]

Thank you Chris, I always appreciate your reading of my work. As we grow old, I think we all grow nostalgic; lately my nostalgia has taken on more of a sharpness and immediacy.