I sit alone in the peace, brilliance and grandeur of Nature,
I sit today, the end of the eighth month of 2012, at the very beginning of my 41st year,
I sit loafing, unanxious, absolved from the daily turbulence,
I sit to nurture, rejuvenate and energize my soul,
I sit observing as witness and recorder: a dozen or more geese pass overheard in a perfect “V” formation, honking their call as they soar past. Busy, buzzing honeybee’s gather nectar from the bright yellow sun-kissed wildflowers; a gentle breeze rustles through the tree tops, loosening leaves already tinged in Fall colors. The clear cold water from the stream tickles my bare feet, impeding the ever-flowing, swirling ebb, the water slows momentarily to greet me with an exuberant, animated and splashy ‘good day’ then retreats on to the next who is due the same sparkling embrace.
I sit dreaming of a visionary, otherworldly poet who is long-dead, but who today, is very alive and is here with me. I sense his presence in the in the peacefulness and beauty of the morning, the radiant orange orb ever rising in the East, brightening the day. I sense his presence in the birds that sing, the breeze the blows and the countless insects that chirp, shrill and buzz. He is everywhere this day.
I sit and recall a befitting Whitman poem, In Paths Untrodden. The intro poem to the Calamus cluster of poems in Leaves of Grass; it’s a poem to be savored any day, but is today a gift to me.
I sit with open invitation, join us friend, cheer Whitman’s gift, In Paths Untrodden
In paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish’d—from the
pleasures, profits, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my Soul;
Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish’d—clear
to me that my Soul,
That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices
Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,
Tallying and talk’d to here by tongues aromatic,
No longer abash’d—for in this secluded spot I can
respond as I would not dare elsewhere,
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself,
yet contains all the rest,
Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly
Projecting them along that substantial life,
Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,
Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-
I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.