an old writer and his words

  • LEAVING

    They don’t do that here,the leaves do not demand to be seenonly in their chosen seasonsand their palette is self-limited.There is no budding in spring,no malus or prunus throwing offwild cascades of white and pinkpainting the ground around them.There is no riot of coloras summer retreats and winterplans its eventual arrival,blazing reds and oranges,yellow, ochers…

    Lou Faber

  • PAUSE

    This morning a lone snowy egretperched stoically atop the leafless treerising out of the small preserve.Of what was it a harbinger, whatmessage was I needing, failing to hear?Was it in search of a dove amid endlessnews of wars still raging on,or was it repeating the unheard warningof what we had wrought in its onceedenic world,…

    Lou Faber

  • STOICS

    This afternoon the vulture couplesit stoically on the limbsof the long dead tree in the preserve. The rain was torrentialas we watched from the dryconfines of our home, theystood soaked to the featherswith nowhere to hide, knowingthey couldn’t out fly or out climbthe purging clouds, so they setsoaking wet and stared at us. And then…

    Lou Faber

  • CORAGYPS ATRATUS

    They sit on the barren tree staring at what we cannot fathom. They are strangely beautiful creatures and utterly odd looking as well. Their black plumage is entrancing, more so when put on display by extended wings. But inevitably it is their head and neck that draws the eye. Gray against the ebony of their…

    Lou Faber

  • SAINTS AND SINNERS

    I am a distant grandchildof saints and Herod,kings and lords, andVisigoths for good measure. That half of me iswoven of ever thinnerbranches on a treethat threatens to topplefrom the lightnessof its other side, rootsdeep in the rich soilof Lithuania, the rootshitting bedrock, andthe branches stuntedand there a simpleAshkenazi Jew.

    Lou Faber

  • CABERNET

    I should pause for a momentand mourn the plump orbsvinaceous in the morning sun,torn free, placed in basketsand carried off to be crushed.But the cabernet beckons,its first sip telling the taleof the California summer,the oak having long forgottenthe tree from which it was cut,and I watch as the sunreluctantly retreats,a flaming farewell, the promiseof a…

    Lou Faber

  • WASHING OUT

    I wrote down the biggestmistakes I made in lifeon the backs of newly fallenmaple leaves, and carried them,a fair number, to the river. I cast them onto the water,some quickly swept up,a few lingering on a fallentree partially dammingthe flow, waiting for this. Most disappeared asthe water approachedthe falls, cascaded overon its way to the…

    Lou Faber

  • SCHMUTZ

    Looking out the windowI quickly realize that the windowneeds cleaning, and thenthat the red-shouldered hawkin the nearby tree is carefullystaring back at me. I want to know whatthe hawk is thinking, perhapsthat I am possible prey, ormore likely wondering whyI am so foolish as to livein a strangely large box. The hawk, of course, iswondering…

    Lou Faber

  • GET A ROOM

    You feel like a voyeur, staringas the red-shouldered hawksmate in a tree mere yardsfrom where you are standing. Still, you cannot take your eyesaway from them, your cameratightly focussed, an avianpornographer perhaps, or maybe just a lucky soul given the chanceto witness a ritual denied to most,and you know with luck their offspringwill repeat the…

    Lou Faber

  • TOO SOON

    The leaves will soon begintheir descent from the small tree,already brown, their beautydeparting before they do so. They are bilobular, an odd word,but one that belongs in a poem,even this one it seems, and it istheir shape that you first notice. The tree will all to soon be naked,branches sticking into the airas if searching…

    Lou Faber