“WHITE ASH” Poem – ‘in memoriam’: Ash Trees in storm track of emerald-ash-borer-infestation

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Ashes, Green and Gold, from Internet

A phonecall just surprised me at work, conveying gratitude for one of my nature poems — in the most recent Sourland Conservancy newsletter.  Long ago, this courageous group had asked for seasonal poems they might use to further preservation in their pages.  I had frankly forgotten.

I urge your strong support of these generous people.   In word and deed, they honor and preserve one of New Jersey’s most crucial stretches of contiguous forest, and water source par excellence.]  NJWILDBEAUTY readers read often of my favorite Sourlands hike, off Hopewell’s Greenwood Avenue.  This post holds the link to newsletter, with that poem in place:  http://sourland.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Sourland-Journal-Autumn-2016.pdf

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Golden Ash from Internet

My current dwelling is surrounded by imposing ash trees.  This year, probably for drought reasons, — instead of their leaves turning boring seared brown– all these monarchs represent the new gold standard.  The light through their leaves is literally blinding, as though glancing off the rare metal itself.  I leave my living room to follow the sun in late afternoon, so I won’t miss a moment of dazzle.

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Golden Ash from Internet, closest in shape to, yet far younger than, ‘mine’

As for the white ash tree of the the poem, I never saw its leaves.  That ash by the towpath is termed ‘white’; the ones near me in Lawrenceville ‘black’.  Ashes represent stateliness surpassed only by oaks, such as the late lamented Mercer Oak, under which the dying Mercer continued to direct the Battle of Princeton.

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Gilded Ash Leaves, October -Blue Sky from Internet

Usually, for me, nature leads to poems.  This time, the poem led to nature.

Published in U.S.1 Newspaper, the man who’d numbered the rings called my editor, the paper’s founder Rich Rein.  He politely requested to be put in touch with me.  The outcome was a shared hike to his ash, mourning already that the elements were having their way with those precise pencil marks.  Ever after, I have called my guide, “Mr. Impeccable”…

It never occurred to me, nor I think, to him, that we could lose our bounty of regional ash trees.  Beware, everyone!  Even the fate of the sturdiest trees is imperiled by climate change:  New Jersey’s ever-warmer winters encourage insects to multiply.  As I urge  so often, please do everything possible through your life choices, –as in writing editors, signing on-line petitions, and especially voting–, to focus our country’s attention on altering climate change once and for all. 

Together, we can bring forth human change for the better, for a change

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Green Trees of Ash from Internet

The Sourland Consevancy chose this poem now, not only to praise ash trees. Their key purpose was to inform readers that we will no soon be bereft of ashes.

These majestic ones will no longer shade; nourish; delight; absorb carbon; shelter squirrels and birds from warblers to raptors; cradle nests; nor fling down a king’s ransom in gold.

The fate of the ashes, the climate, the Planet itself is in your hands.

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Ash Majesty Measured, From Internet

[I wrote this poem in the year 2000, when thinking in terms of eons was the norm…]

WHITE ASH

 

I take the high track

where the path splits

wondering if the felled trunk

remains to block my way

 

but it’s been sawn

and someone impeccable

has named the tree

numbered its annular rings:

“1872”   “1905”   “1950”

 

this enormous trunk

yet a mere two inches

mark years from my grade school

until this year’s tree-death

 

–faint the rings

and fainter still the penciled

letters naming this compacted

wood — preferred for baseball

bats because it does not crack

 

my own annular rings

do not bear numbering

 

 

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

February/March 2000

SHADY WALKS: US 1 NEWSPAPER article & LAMBERTVILLE & BARLEY SHEAF FARM, PA.

NJWILDBEAUTY readers know that sometimes, (if VERY fortunate), I can convince local editors to feature nature articles for their readers.  I’m very aware that people of the 21st Century, if they are not out IN Nature, can absolutely forget, if not negate her.

The perilous state of journalism in our time renders my media appearances more and more scarce.  Nonetheless, those who find US 1 Business Newspaper tomorrow/Wednesday, August 10, will see my article on four shady walks in this time of searing sunlight.  I’ve been blessed to have a new poem, “Earthwise”, in US 1’s Fiction Issue the past two weeks.

Lambertville Towpath Water and Shade

Canalside Shade, Lambertville Towpath

Meanwhile, on  Sunday, I relished a fine shady towpath hike with Jeanette Hooban, (original Intrepid), first heading north out of Lambertville (NJ), then south, so far as the weir, otherwise known as the rapids of the Delaware River near New Hope.  There are towpaths with canal on both sides of this river that I cherish above all others.  Our side has the right amount of water in it.  Pennsylvania is finally getting ’round to filling theirs to historic levels, but it’s taking an unconscionably long time.

Lambertville Towpath Doowary

Typical Lambertville Canalside House

I have to admit, since I am in terrific turbulence over the difficult diagnosis given my 20-year-old great nephew last week, my ‘eye’, –as manifested through my camera–, was seriously off during these refreshing hours.

Bear with me, nonetheless.  I will expand the quantity and quality of my meagre offering with fine photographs by Jeanette and by Brenda Jones, known to readers of this blog and its predecessor for the Packet, NJWILD.

Know that Jeanette and I relished every foot(e)fall.  That the journey WAS the destination.  And that our culminating brunch at Pennsylvania’s Barley Sheaf Inn, past Lahaska, may have been our most luminous yet.  Every sustaining visit to this haven (known for weddings) has us plotting our return, listing the friends with we MUST share this multi-faceted excellence.

Sunflower Crown Lambertville Towpath

“Sunshine On Your Shoulders…” — Towering Towpath Sunflower

Exquisite as the food was, as always; chaleureuse (warm) as the welcome always is; beckoning as the grounds always are, we could barely eat for watching continuous courtship dances of various species of butterflies.

BlackSwallowtail among Loosestrife Brenda Jones

Black Swallowtail Nectaring by Brenda Jones

Come with us to our post-hike haven — Barley Sheaf Inn:

A Barley Sheaf Dormers and Autust Sky

Barley Sheaf Inn Dormer and August Sky

A Barley Sheaf Balcony

Barley Sheaf Shadows

cabbage white gold flower Brenda Jones

Dance of the Cabbage Whites by Brenda Jones

A Barley Sheaf Pond  August

Barley Sheaf Inn Pond, Fed by Spring Once Essential to Indians

A Barley Sheaf Summer Garden

Barley Sheaf Inn Pool Garden

A Barley Sheaf Pool House

Barley Sheaf Inn Pool House

clouds by Jeanette Hooban

Barley Sheaf Inn Summer Skies by Jeanette Hooban

les deux Carolyns par Jeanette Hooban

Les Deux Carolines, Brunching in Moss Hart’s Exquisite Dining Room

Jeanette's Breakfast Barley Sheaf by Jeanette

Jeanette’s Eggs Benedict by Jeanette Hooban

A Barley Sheaf Petals for the Bride

Petals for the Bride

A Barley Sheaf Tracery

Barley Sheaf Tracery, Above the Rose Petal Path

lotus by Jeanette Hooban

Lotus Farewell, Barley Sheaf Farm by Jeanette Hooban

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Swallowtail and Bee — Two Pollinators to One Flower — by Brenda Jones

“SOURLANDING” — New Poem

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Sourland Mountain Preserve, “Mr. Smiley Face” major rock at entry

Lately, the Muse has become relentless, interrupting key reading to dictate her latest devisings.  Tonight, she’s kept me at reformatting and meticulously improving page after page in her new poetry notebook.  Maybe she’ll ‘get off my back’ for awhile, if I turn one of her latest into a blog for you.  Might even go so far as to illustrate it a bit.

Ladder and Birdhouse

I always considered this Hauptmann’s Ladder — this site so near the hasty grave of the Lindbergh baby...

I’ve been out on this trail (in Hopewell, off Greenwood Avenue, which is off Route 518 mid-town at the light at the vintage pharmacy.)  Its magic only increases with each visit.

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Rocks Exhale Lenape Presence

An assignment for US 1 (Business!) Newspaper, at their request, features the Sourlands Mountain Preserve as one of four shady hike sites.  As I say in the story, along those trails, there is no Philadelphia or Manhattan; no Princeton; not even Hopewell.  Matters political are so remote as to be impossible, although their results can extensively and even destructively affect sacred sites such as these.

Without determined preservationists, we would not have had these hikes.  Nor would you, and others, (including my daughter’s literature class) have this poem.   Enjoy, and walk this shaded trail, as summer burgeons.

Marilyn as Lookout Sourlands 08 08

My sister, Marilyn Weitzel, Janet Black and Betty Lies Bird the Sourland Mountain Preserve Trail (see what I mean about SHADE!)

 

SOURLANDING

 

 a short walk in the dense woods

where temperature and season

remain irrelevant

silence itself audible

 

now and then broken

by ovenbirds’ shrill cries

 

in the right light

blessed by

orotund tones of wood thrush

 

domain of terrestrial turtles

and the occasional owl

 

dark ponds all a-shimmer

with polliwogs

 

towering rocks

still breathe Indian presence

 

at trail-top, we might ride

the grown-ups’ teeter-totter

hand-hewn from a wind-felled tree

 

“If you would attempt exercise

go in search of

the springs of life,” asserts

Henry David Thoreau

 

“The world today

is sick to its thin blood

for lack of elemental things,”

Henry Beston mourns

 

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

Summer Solstice 2016