Ginkgo Walk

Come with me to moss and wood

where trees grow old

the ones that were

and the ones that won

after the saw

and clanging mill 

diamonds on her neck

help her sprout

new art 

green bathing suits

roaring surf 

a giant

among giants

unnoticed  

a tree fell

I didn’t hear

did you? 

vanilla fragrance

a fir has fallen

don’t tell

tall and lone

where loggers couldn’t reach

his bushy hair

bad hair day

in the Oregon woods

Oregon villages

built on wood

close to the earth

the humble ones

miniature forest 

under giants

mortals dwell 

my friends are here

my path a sponge

clear and soft 

a tree has fallen on my path

how dare a friend

act like that

danger ahead

keep flowing

a forest lurks  

I didn’t count the rings on this old douglas fir, didn’t take the time.  It grew fast with wide healthy rings when young.  But as it aged, the rings narrowed and rot set in.  I’m guessing it was born about the time of Thomas Jefferson.

I grew fast when young

slowed with age

my rings can tell

rot inside

this aging body

see here when it was young

in the old fir’s top

her rings are broad

her wood young 

she leans downhill

while the young stand straight

will anyone see her fall? 

long fallen

flesh decayed

her spirit feeds the young 

long dead

having never fallen

it does not know how 

many creatures

climb in trees

none strange

small mountain

with small trees

bonsai 

higher up

sinking lower

snowy trail 

I went to the boondocks today, as a logger would say, or boonies for short.  A trail heads south out of Oakridge, up the steep side of Salmon Creek to a ridge leading to a panoramic lookout rock.  The Larison Rock Trail climbs about the same elevation as going from Pasadena to Mt. Wilson.  I call it a Ginkgo Walk because it’s the name haiku writers give to places they walk for poetic inspiration.  I didn’t go for that reason, but soon found my reason changing.

I only made it halfway to Larison Rock because the snow is much deeper up there, and trudging difficult.  I saw no tracks in the snow other than mine and a few small rodents.

When a photograph leads an inquiring mind away from its literal content, and when such thoughts become words in the haiku form, like a hiker leaving the trailhead for Larison Rock, this is what the Japanese call haiga.  Often the words are written directly on the photograph.  Some of mine above are haiga and others are haiku or prose that describe the pictures.  You are welcome to use any of my photos as trailheads.  I would be delighted to see your haiga skipping back home along the Larison Rock Trail.