A change of seasons and our Poet Laura

As I write these thoughts in the last few days of October, here in New Jersey the weather is humid and well into the 70’s. It’s our first sunny Saturday in 7 weekends, and a light breeze rustles fallen leaves on the lawn. Perhaps summer is having second thoughts about closing for the year, maybe autumn is feeling friendly and relinquishes the stage for a day or two. I’m sitting in my partially unpacked home office, empty walls and corners awaiting decoration, storage solutions and, most important, inspiration for writing work to be started (and completed). I’ve received the feather hand-off from Dheepa, our Poet Laura from last year, and am ready for poetry to guide me through these next 12 months with you, Readers, as Tweetspeak’s next Poet Laura.

So much change in a season! To some extent, if we live with forward motion, a level of transition always exists in our lives. Some change is welcomed, some resisted, some causes upheaval and some projects us on a new journey. I’ve had my own changeovers recently, having just completed (but not unpacked) my second of two moves in under a year. Both times, the condos where I’ve rented have been sold. The first took me from a place I loved living, to a place I less-than-loved (a LOT less) for 10 months. Now, I’m back in the neighborhood that feels like home. Just in time for autumn.

I am not going to ruminate on the many lessons in “surrender”  I embraced this past year. No re-wrapping them in paper and boxes for basement storage, just tossing them with the trash, bundling them with the recycling.

I want to be free, like the tree
who forgets the storm, each leaf,
before winter sleep

—Michelle Ortega, from “shadowSelf”

I’ve gotten out of the habit of daily walking for all the reasons this year, but now it’s time to re-establish my practice. The trees in my neighborhood are established and well cared for. They line the streets that wind through the complex, and stand aglow as the sun rises each day. Morning light never gets old, does it? Full of possibility, the gift of a new day. Fog and vibrant yellows, fiery reds decorate the path, scatter like confetti at my feet. It’s a discipline of gratitude for health and strength, and a sort of homecoming. While I make progress toward my daily walking on this goal, I’ll use Treecard, a “walk to plant” app. It’s free to use, and easily connects with my iPhone to count steps. 10,000 steps plants a tree, in my online world as well as in reality. So far I’ve planted 20 trees with my steps: Acacia, Fir, Mangrove, Palm, Banana and Cacao. My little island on the app is reforesting, and releasing nutrients back into the air.

Sometimes I just don’t remember that trees that I cherish are the source for all the paper I consume. Not just me, of course, because poets tend to use a notoriously high amount of paper. I must confess to the blatant overuse of paper by drafting the same work again and again, reprinting a poem after I’ve changed one comma, or one em dash. I’ve recently committed to just marking the work in pen, and only reprinting when a clean copy is needed for submission. Progress made, one page at a time.

***

One of my favorite images in the woods is that of fallen trees, when their trunks are held by the branches of another. Just as the root system connects and communicates below the soil,  neighboring trees help usher the broken toward earth. Fallen limbs and broken branches turn depleted soil into richness, provide food for insects and shelter for beings close to the ground.

No words to pray, but each breath drawn beyond my lungs offered
for those who step into the next life, unheld, unseen. For those that
cling like dry leaves on a tree through winter. For those bent in the
storm who do not break, but care for the ones who fall.

 —Michelle Ortega, from “Marcescence”

***

Do you have a favorite tree? I love the delicate fan-like veins of the gingko leaf, and the wispy maroons of the Japanese Maple. But as for the tree itself, my favorite is the Weeping Beech. These giant trees are easy to pass by in the local arboretum; the cascade of slender branch and leaf hides the tree’s architecture, unless you are curious enough to explore. I find myself drawn to the space under the tree. The Weeping Beech branches curve toward the earth, sending an invitation not to climb, necessarily, like to the Oak or Maple, but to “come in.” Listen. Look at the knots on the branches and see what creatures emerge. Sit on the lowered branch and rest. A low-draping curve wants to hold you, arms up, with your back supported. Play. Hang from this medium branch. Lift your feet off the ground, do you dare?

Your Turn

This month, become acquainted with a tree in your yard or in a neighborhood space. Experience the tree at different times of the day. Lay beside it, lay beneath it. Sketch it. Free write in a journal about it. Write a poem, if you dare!

maiden-mother-crone

draped from sky to ground,
elegant branches gently
part, invite me to slip
under her canopy where

damp air suspends
honeysuckle and bark
and earth; my eyes
water at the sweetness

while sunlight refracts
through her crown,
each leaf a jewel;
gnarled toe-roots bear

her pillared trunk; initials
carved long ago, turned
keloid––beyond the scars,
love lingers;

I recline in the crook
of an outstretched limb,
feet off the ground, wait
for her to lift me into the heat

and light but we are still,
the hush-rustle of a breeze
her breath and mine;

this threshold    a slow    becoming

—Michelle Ortega

Photo by Mark Gunn, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Michelle Ortega. “Marcescence” published Poetry in Response to the Pandemic, May 2020, St Michael’s Episcopal Church, Arlington VA. “maiden-mother-crone”published in Snapdragon: A Journal of Healing, Fall 2021. All poems by Michelle Ortega, used by permission.

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Michelle Rinaldi Ortega

As a quiet child and angst-y teen, Michelle loved to read and write. When poetry found her again about fifteen years ago, the Tweetspeak community brought her multiple resources on journey, from content to courses to in-person meetups. She hosted Tweetspeak’s very first Mischief Cafe! A speech-language pathologist by day, Michelle's avocations include travel across the country and the globe, as well as digital and black and white film photography. Michelle is the author of Don't Ask Why from Seven Kitchens Press. Her microchapbook, Tissue Memory, is forthcoming from Porkbelly Press. You can find her work at www.michelleortegawrites.com and on IG @michellebelleslp.

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