Pressed leaves are thoughts preserved

This is a poetic musing I wrote in October of 2010.  It describes the momentous first drops and ensuing deluge of autumn on the Oregon Coast.  As a reader and distant cyber voyeur, this text can be soaked up through the eyes without wetting the page.  I hope you enjoy!

Last night, a storm blew in from the Pacific Ocean and graced our sleepy fishing town with fresh smells and the glossy sheen of rain water.  Just two weeks ago, we had cleaned out our gutters in anticipation of the Oregon Coast’s infamous wet fall-time weather – the eves are now singing as the droplets cascade off the roof and coarse through white metallic veins down onto the swelling lawn.  Colors seem to mix and mingle in the midst of a downpour; it’s as if my window frames one of Monet’s giant water lily paintings, capturing the raw power and elegance that nature embodies.  Our two dogs, Raven and Izzy, wear soaked fur coats and droopy faces from sitting on the deck instead of the garage – we gave them a bath last week and they are now dirtier than ever.  Why wash when you have a veritable water closet on the west coast?  Izzy’s beagle ears drip drops into her eyes and remind me of the straggling leaves that hang heavy from the vine maples across the street.  Chorus frogs add their croaks to the echoing pitter-patter of the storm’s cadence, informing people that life still exists in the middle of a deluge.  If you do choose to venture outside, the big hemlock tree behind the house stands as a perfect umbrella for those seeking shelter beneath its fragrant boughs.  Fat droplets transform themselves into a fine mist that make it appear as though calm has set in and the clouds have emptied at last; however, size does not matter on the wetness scale and dry ground has vanished with the old growth forests.  An approaching fog-bank engulfs my vision, diffracting my line of sight into tiny glimpses of the ghostly tapestry affixed to nothing and everything.  Moments are but brief breaks in the mysteries we discover.  They unravel with the fabric of time for us to weave what we will out of sensory impulses.  I have saved for you, dear reader, a small fragment of my thoughts on this page like an autumn leaf pressed inside a book.

About tyler4turtles

I am an avid photographer, poet, ecologist, bookworm, blogger, art enthusiast and runner who calls Montana home but lives in Oregon.
This entry was posted in Nature poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Pressed leaves are thoughts preserved

  1. Gallivanta says:

    Again, this could have been written for me just two days ago when we had our first heavy rainstorm; no frogs croaking though.

    • Wonderful! For me, frog choruses remind me of autumn, so it’s strange that you do not have this symphony to experience. No matter – I’m sure you have other wildlife speak to keep you busy throughout the week 🙂
      Cheers,
      Tyler

  2. kiwiskan says:

    A passage to wallow in…

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