Seasons
Ode to Milkweed Pods
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to Milkweed Pods"
I love milkweed pods,
And I love the field I find them in
Up in the woods of Maine.
Every time I walk into
That hallowed Maine field,
My eyes sweep for
Milkweed pods, and if I locate
Them, I always lie amongst
Them, as if their long
Stalks were blessing me,
The very same feeling I get as
When I dive into the healing foam
And font of the ocean.
So simple is Maine, so
Hardscrabble are
Its shrouded woods, so
Hidden its fields of milkweed,
So magnanimous to me,
So accepting, as if
I was a monarch butterfly,
And had alighted their sweet
Nectar to imbibe for my
Migration to eternity!
Leo Carroll
August 26, 2018
I thought I would
Never sit amongst you again…
That you would be but
A memory I always inhaled in the
Hymnal of my breath,
But then there you were —
Unexpectedly back, awaiting me —
The face to me of Maine’s autumn, and
So accepting unconditionally!
And so amongst you
I reclined, and you began to
Nourish me as if I was a
Monarch butterfly, and your pods
Became the nectar to sustain my pilgrim’s
Flight, until finally my migration
Reached the old by-and-by…
Ode to ‘Reading Room’
Click for meditationRegarding "Ode to ‘Reading Room’"
How I love my time
Spent in the woods of Maine!
At one point in my life, I went up
There for twenty one straight years every
November, and in all my
Life I have never found a more
Consistently peaceful place to
Contemplate and write. Every sight and
Sound in the woods had
Meaning to me, and I had a
Wide variety of names to refer to
Some of my favorite spots –
For example, the “Reading Room,”
The “Field”, and the “Trap Line” were
Three locations I regularly
Visited. Each had a natural niche
For me to settle into, and to
Wonder and daydream.
I wrote hundreds of poems
While up there. I would just sit in
Silence. The “Reading Room”
Became my best-liked, and
I would often end my day
There as the late afternoon
Light took over the woods.
Invariably at a certain point,
I would hear the melancholic
Barking of a dog coming from
The pasture of a distant, white
Farmhouse. The sound would waft
Across the tops of the trees,
And I would be reminded
Of something in my past which
Was comfortable and I called “home.”
And so, even now when I no longer
Go up to those beloved Maine
Woods, I will daydream
Of the many walks which
I took to find my resting place
In the “Reading Room.”
In the case of the poem for
Which this meditation is
Written, I was daydreaming
One January day of what
The path I walked would look
Like if there were no footprints in
The snow, and if the “Reading Room”
Was all alone watching what
I would have been watching, but
Sadly there was no one there
Now to call the barking
Dog home …
Leo Carroll
February 25, 2019
No footsteps in the snow
Lead up to you today,
No flesh cold sits upon your
Ledge, no mind wanders and then
Wonders at every sight and sound, and no
Melancholy rises up in the throat
When bays a dog across the
Primeval expanse between you
And a lone, white farmhouse –
Which even now from here,
Lo all these hundreds of miles away,
I can still see gleaming like a
Shining beacon across the tree tops
In my daydream’s gaze.
Slate-Colored Juncos
Click for meditationRegarding "Slate-Colored Juncos"
One long ago
Winter day, a mix of
Grey and overcast and my
Mood the same,
I was peering out my
Window at one of my
Rock gardens, and
As I was doing this,
I noticed the barest
Of movement
In the curled-up,
Dormant grass.
I thought at first it
Was a single bird, but I
Soon realized it was
A tiny flock of
Small, blue-grey
Birds, sparrow size
Maybe, but birds
Which I had not
Noticed in my garden
Before. They kept
Inching their
Way closer to my
House, and their heads
Were vigorously
Bobbing as they
Pecked away
At some invisible
Source of nutrient.
Before I knew
It, they reached
The foundation of
My house and were
Right below the very window
I was looking out, and
Finding sustenance,
Where 30 minutes before
I had thought all was
Cold and grey!
Leo Carroll
January 29, 2019
Little blue-grey
Birds inch their way
Towards my house,
Their beaks to the ground,
Their hope to fill
Their mouths.
Their color seems
To be of the sea’s winter
Sheen – cold and
Hard – but I believe
Their tiny beaks feed a
Gentle breed.
Cabin in the Woods
Click for meditationRegarding "Cabin in the Woods"
I was up in the
Maine woods one year with
A group of some friends.
We were there for the
Week in an old,
Historical hunting cabin.
One afternoon,
Most everyone had
Found their spot
Out beneath some tree
Or along a stone
Wall, but for me — my
Day had ended,
And I was sitting in the
Cabin with just
One other friend,
A dear friend, an old
Friend, a long-time,
Dependable friend, the
Best kind of friend,
And we were talking
Over a glass of red wine.
As the afternoon reached its
Zenith and final light,
An absolutely peaceful,
Melancholic
Warmth settled in
Upon the cabin, and
I realized how
Sometime soon
We would ourselves
Become merged
With the woods in a
Final accounting
Of all things created…
I always cherish that
Singular moment, that light —
And, particularly, that
Friendship to
Share in it.
Leo Carroll
May 11, 2018
Gradually
Settles up’n the
Cabin an autumn spell of
End-of-afternoon, fading light,
Golden in its hue, and
Melancholic in the
Warmth and glow it casts,
And a reminder, also,
That we are caretakers of
This place in time, and
Like the ghosts that once sat these
Self-same chairs in the
Womb of these old walls,
We, too, will someday share
With the woods the
Coming final sunset and
Descending night.
Almost
Click for meditationRegarding "Almost"
Someday
I’ll walk through
That thicket,
Someday, when
My time has
Come, and I’ve
Taken my
Last compass
Reading along
A stone wall
Where I am welcome.
Ah, to enter…
I think I will know
The time when to take
That final step…
I’ll just merge with
The overcast
Of the day,
And step through
Into another
Wood, and it
Will look exactly
Like this wood,
The same,
Except on the
Other side I will
Know of the
People I meet — far
More names.
Leo Carroll
June 4, 2018
Never could be
Found me,
If I truly
Wanted to
Quietly
Disappear
Into this
Maine
Thicket.
Just a few
Further steps
And I would
Be gone,
As if I passed
Through a
Veil’s
Smoky
Mirror, and
Last seen
Of me was
Only a fading
Wisp.