EDITOR’S NOTE: Gregory Longshore is a formal poet who lives in Central Florida and spent a few days in April in a cabin in Ellijay. “I’ve been so taken with the North Georgia mountains, the trees, and the wildlife that I was inspired to write a couple of poems,” he said.
I wonder whence came all this gath’ring dust along the outer logs—the cabin wall; a silent ear can hear the gentle thrust, of something within wriggle, maybe crawl. And then emerges, buzzing, hoving bee: She holds position, angles each discrete; a perfect mechanism stares at me of shiny chitin, fuzz, and tiny feet. She must’ve bored her home into the wood, a carpenter extant I never knew; she’s not alone, a dotting neighborhood of other homes each circular and true all punctuate this edifice I thought was just a boring wall of beam and knot.
The spinning seeds fall ‘neath my steady foot; they’ve spiraled down from limbs, from scaling trees that hide within the loam their holding root.
Anonymous, this species brings me ease, with drooping, jagged leaves I can’t discern, in pillars rising in the rushing breeze.
The slope and gravel test, yet I must earn with every step my balance ‘long this trail to reach the drawing place of my concern:
A vantage higher up yet lifts the veil that, deeper down, obscures the falling wedge of sunset’s light, now ebbing, dimming pale.
The canvas of the bark begins to edge the brightly pigments of the falling day beyond the canopies, then starts to dredge