I mentioned in an earlier post that I lost all of my old site content. I found this one in an obscure document file and reconstituted it for the new and improved Folkpotpourri:

Reach with open hand and open heart; take hold, if you can, those delicious hues of autumn sunset draped in lonely north wind mingled with bedraggled cloud, soon to be brooding for times of verdant summer mist, already near lost in forgotten stories of yesterday.  Indeed, yesterday, the stately woodland rang with melodies of summer, orchestras of wild birds and breezes generously blown from tame southlands where it is easy to imagine such ambience is nurtured.  Yesterday, where shadowy vines of darkest green wound grandly in a tapestry of misty treetops, trains of scarlet now cling to amber and golden hickory crowns revealing they indeed claimed for their own the loftiest boughs of the wood, as indigo and silent winds increasingly and incessantly coax them into a cumulative slow dance to the autumn symphony.  The autumn stage is set, hasten to allow these scenes of nature’s marvel into your memory, do not ignore the accompanying sound – aggrieved rasps of black birds, lonely and whispery whine of the grey squirrel; cold, clear water from unseen woodland fountains trickling over limestone escarpments, soon to be immobilized by icy silence in bounds of copper and yellow leaves.  Every roadway becomes a wonderland.

A great oak stands sentinel, watching somberly, attentively, as the furnace of summer wanes once more among the last few cauldrons of October, now interrupted by nights of cool mist wafting about starlit glens of intruding autumn shadow and whispering threats of rime to brittle, fallow leaves.  His watch unbroken through countless seasons, has once more patiently awaited the gum tree and sumac to emerge from sylvan dressing halls where the Master adorned them with exquisite gowns of profound crimson; they drink from deep, unseen vessels to another celebration of inimitable woodland hues.  Hordes of squirrels secret away for winter scraps of wild provender breathlessly scavenged among leaves, rocks, and prostrate moss-covered sentinels of yesterday.

Raindrops bide, percolating in low-hanging, leaden billows, at last to wrestle free and pitch to a bleak arid earth and to darken streams of dry stones patiently awaiting; blessed raindrops, to soak desiccated trails through endless thirsty hollows. Cold, autumn raindrops, to silence the crusty blanket of new-fallen leaves in expectation of the stealthy white-tailed stag; soon he will need the silence of wet leaves as he busies himself dutifully tearing openings in the fallow carpet to provide irresistible earthen patches to be searched out by does, in obeisance to the ritual that makes them this year’s concubines.  A seasonal urge will soon take him and for weeks he will pursue his regal posture of golden but waning autumn and brook no interloper into his realm.  He has no choice; his role is assigned by the Master.

In the coolness of the October night, as a full moon assumes command of the celestial ocean above, coyotes gather to discuss in shrill voices those pertinent notions of interest only to themselves (and perhaps the bobcat), but in nocturnal earnest, as shadowy breezes drift over a moonlit landscape abundant with small prey lurking fearfully, silently, and most intently eavesdropping on the conversation.  Ignoring the crazed chorus of coyote howls, secretive night birds take notice of the changes in weather that are upon them.  Occasional hoots and rustles in cool oaken boughs hint of their disdain; indeed, some have, in fits of irremediable insult, even departed to spend winter in climes greener and more amenable. 

On most afternoons now, a murder of raucous crows stationed along the edges of the wood take up hurling insults and name-calling; not at all pleased with nature’s effrontery.   Through tears in the dark clouds, rays of silver sunlight reflect from black feathers, perhaps illuminating, perhaps illustrating their displeasure at the way of things.  Their antics and curses go unheeded however, by the autumn wind; it has chosen to stay and it will, mirth or grief of irascible birds notwithstanding.   

This post is somewhat different from the kind of things I normally write about. It’s more serious and maybe it comes from my views on war back in the 60s and 70s when Vietnam was going on. In the unlikely event y’all haven’t heard, there’s a terrible war happening right now in Europe, with staggering casualties, and my thoughts are with those boys on the battlefields. No matter which side they’re on. Hope it strikes home:

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. 

Dare to stand and face the stoic reaper; he approaches, borne on a flight of burning metal shards blown nigh from the thunder of an unseen, faraway weapon.  He wears no smile.  He strikes. The rain of warm, scarlet droplets suddenly marking the persons of your companions comes from naught but your own torn and shattered body.  Perhaps you hear your own last agonized scream; perhaps you hear nothing.   

Your time to fall is come, to repose upon this melancholy swath of beleaguered, cratered pasture, a diminutive pitch of earth now coming soaked with dark and boding crimson.  Dare to release your temporal, mortal confine amid somber tendrils of pale cannon smoke wafting over the tracked steppe, as your final breath departs and so leaves the form silent and still forthwith and evermore.  The echo of cannon carries on; that morbid rumble – heard by your ears no longer; felt by your body no more.   

How your mother would grieve to hear the precious son she once nourished at her breast – lies mangled, broken; whose last thoughts wane ‘neath the startled flight of a thrush in his piteous effort to flee from the chaos you could not.  Now, as your form lies motionless upon the mournful, scarlet-spangled carpet of damp grass and ochre leaves, might there be left fleeting memories of wine and mirth and home, or the companionship of a dog or precious children joined for a warm and lighted supper in the aroma of fresh-baked bread?  Is a peaceful evening with your beloved under a canopy of silver starlight dimly woven among ebbing recollections ere your thoughts are completely taken?

Have angels appeared to bear your exhausted soul away from the carnage?  Has the vacant pallid body, waxing cold and mingled with mud, and for all of your short years the fortress of your soul, at last been left behind?   Have you only now come to realize it was never yours; nor was it ever you, and do you feel no loss for abandoning it? Do the anguished cries of your compatriots echo in the place to which you have since arrived?  Or has your spirit, no longer haunted with terror of the long dark stillness, finally come to that unimaginably serene and peaceful shore where angels sing unimaginably beautiful songs? 

You now realize love is the only thing you’ve brought with you. You’ve left love behind as well. It will remain and it will follow. Love takes many forms; perhaps now that this journey is over, you understand.  Or perhaps you simply sleep, at rest from the horrors you’ve endured.  Perhaps a tearful salutation from the heart of someone far away, blessed (or burdened) with compassion for youthful strangers fading in horror on cold, muddy, and blood-soaked fields among terrified and spiritually wounded companions – may serve to impart some notion of understanding; somewhere.  Of sympathy, both to you and to those who love you. Eternally, in God’s children of pure heart love endures, and it shall endure; for God is Love.

Fare thee well for now.  Rest in the peace with which you are blessed.

May you walk in paradise in the blessed company of the Lord Jesus Christ, young friend, forevermore.