Walking the Ridge Home
~John Leax 1. With my whole heart I want to praise Thee In snow calf-deep I climb the ridge through pioneer forest— the trees thorn apples crowding the field’s edge yield ground under shadowing black cherry ash and straight white oak the river at my back frozen in February light a promise imagination claims in darkness Here I have kicked grouse exploding from sheltering drifts and jumped back delighted in surprise And I have tracked turkey following the arrows of their feet backwards to the high ground of their roosts On this cold day in the wind descending to the tallest oaks the tallest oaks yielding as if called (obedient to the leading) arc rooted trails against the silver sky I place my feet with care plunge my stick through the sharp crust to find the holding earth heart pounding breathe breathe through the trees arcing in the wind turning on the ridge in the surrounding light the light of the valley the light above me the light below me the light of the world 2. Oh darken not to me Thy light The descent beckons— the heart prints trail away from the narrow path half filled obscured in the time of their passing by the dust of snow I follow Under the hemlocks the down sweeping branches catching my watch cap lifting it lightly snow imperturbably cold like a leather collar on the back of my neck when I release the branch from my hand The inclusive silence of the wood contains the day’s vernacular as the sky contains the silver light the hollow thunk of woodpecker pounding the combustive thrum of cars in the valley foot steps even the wind if it blows through the oak tops like the acorns falling into shade has no given word to liven the dumb darkness of the grove 3. Teach us dear Lord to number our days i. Where the ground falls away paying the debt of the steep slope logged and forgotten the charred remains of fire a circle of stone a tent of deadfalls tossed against an oak adequate perhaps to shelter a saint at prayer ii. Where the apples grow gnarled and tart so good every autumn walk strays to bite again that clean flesh of the lost garden gone for good iii. Where the plantation pines rise in afternoon light— a convocation of crows insolent in shining regalia mobs the mouse-satisfied owl 4. O satisfy us early with Thy mercy At the edge of this opening in the woods the poplars I declare with the Psalmist lift up their arms in elegant leaflessness praising you with the white sheen of their bark with their rooted journeys in the wind with the crooked fingers of their hands spread to receive the blessing of your snow O that I might stand in their silent choir a stilled voice going like them no where in the whirl of the world turning in time O that I might be mindless of the loss that has brought me to this place of your making and unmaking But you have made me mindful filled my mouth with words to name the crow the owl the mouse you have made me mindful to love the predator and prey to taste on my tongue the sacrament all creation eats one life for many such mercy the blessing of your snow 5. Establish Thou the work of our hands oikos—earthhold the the economy of culture minding the world a burl of words white pine in rows even aged (stepping down to the little stream descending from the far slash of quick profit) work of the passing mind intending renewal Commercially difficult poorly formed unacceptable growing stock Harvest is recommended Removal of inferior pine of highest importance Openings can be made where hardwood introduction has begun In the cathedral light of failure become shade I stand stilled in ambition’s end.
On the snow banked beside me a pile of bones disarticulated and in the stream the bridge drawn down by water’s mindless inclination to fall 6. Let all the tumult within me cease. I know O Lord you speak in words made flesh in the chick-a-dee dee sounding from the thicket in the canopy creak of the oaks straining for the light in water slushing under ice With my whole heart I would serve you serve you with my finest praise lifting as freely as mist from the snow but words lodge homeless in my throat Once long ago in the Siskiyous I crossed open scree near a mountain’s summit Far to the south Shasta rose luminous the hope of in I sucked—in one breath— the emptiness the terrible beauty of your way O how can I know you how comprehend what mystery caused you to speak once in word and once in flesh O So Close Disclosing Knowing If Not Known I am all longing Speak 7. This dwelling, O God, by Thee be blest If you should take back your Spirit Lord and gather to yourself your breath all all would perish
the little stream plunging like laughter into the larger creek cutting this opening in the ridge rising from the ancient bed of the distant river the hemlock grove shielding its flow heavily stocked in need of future treatment the hardwood stand rising in light on the gentler slope around the point white oak hickory ash well spaced for optimum growth the orioles who hang their nests and sing bright splashes in the leafing tops each spring these words I say giving up all claim to make with them any world not made already by your grace my friend walking here in autumn swelter “One could make this a place of worship” Up the knobby spine Thy kingdom come I place my feet with care Thy will be done plunge my stick through the sharp crust on earth heart pounding breathe breathe through the trees arcing in the wood bending word as it is climbing home in the surrounding light the light of the valley the light above me the light below me the light of the world forever and ever Joy Joy |