WILLIAM OGDEN HAYNES

Slow Changes Under the Sun

The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and

dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it

had nothing else in the universe to do.  Galileo Galilei
 

That day, the cumulus clouds wandered slowly across

the sky like sheep herded by an invisible wind. In the heart

of the forest, the pulsation of life was seen in everything

from tiny insects to the tallest tree. And somewhere

underground, roots threaded deep into the soil, and seeds

slowly cracked open in darkness waiting for water and

sunlight. Wildflower petals yawned open, stretching to

greet the sunrise. The air smelled clean, perfumed subtly

by pine, cedar and wild mint. A beetle waddled along on

a decaying log and a spider’s web trembled in the gentle

breeze. Morning dew clung to green leaves like a necklace

of diamonds and early mist lifted like a veil from the face

of a new day. Ancient oaks stood tall with storm-scarred

bark, their lives spanning slow seasons counted in rings

that won’t be seen until they’re felled by the logger’s axe.

Here, time creeps along, almost imperceptibly, as leaves

slowly turn toward light, roots reach out for water and

shadows at sunrise crawl across the forest floor. And

Galileo’s grapes, these wild muscadines, change color so

gradually, that not even the deer who eat them will notice.

The Fragility of Poetry

Some things are delicate, like antique stemware. If

even a gentle hand holds the stem too tightly it’s likely

to snap. The same is true for eggshells, bubbles, dishes

and spiderwebs. Other objects are fragile because

they’re short-lived, like autumn leaves, sandcastles,

snowflakes and cut flowers. We enjoy them while we

can because they’ll soon disappear. There are intangibles

we can’t touch that are also easily broken. Promises,

hearts, winning streaks, relationships, spirits, trust

and democracy are all fragile. Our lives become more

delicate as we face aging and mortality. That’s why

we’re careful and take precautions. And that brings me

to the fragility of poetry. A poet sits in a room, draft

after draft written on paper, words crossed out, arrows

rearranging stanzas, crumpled papers, like large hailstones,

clutter the floor. Suddenly, inspiration strikes, notions

emerge as dim filaments in the distance. The poet sees

the scattered threads and weaves them into a string, then

a rope, clipping off extraneous fibers, creating a tight braid

of words and metaphors. We think of a rope as having

strength, but a poem is not necessarily strong. When you let

someone read it, you’re putting the poem and yourself on

the line. You’re at the mercy of the reader’s biases. There’s

a vulnerability in the work and in the poet’s self-esteem.

And in the end, no matter how tightly wound, a poem is at

best just a lottery ticket, and at worst, a house of cards, an

umbrella made of rice paper, easily blown away with a sigh.

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies.    http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com

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