She whispers my name... Only I can hear

Wednesday, October 28, 2009


It is quiet now
On the farm
We call it a tree farm
It is more like a loosely managed forest preserve

Staying there for any period of time
Induces a transition

Physical, mental, spiritual

Time doesn't pass more slowly there
It just seems like it
The day is not measured in hours

So much as by events
The first birds to come to the feeders

A trip into town
Going for a walk
The last rays of sun on the porch

Sapphire, bleeding into ebony
Crystal clear bright white
Thousands of tiny points of light
Crossing unimaginable time and distance
To arrive on that perfect night
While the moon slept, and wishes kept secret
Could finally take flight

The constellations rise, one by one
The slow parade emerges from the horizon

Unlike most people
When I think of New York
I do not think of tall buildings, or crowds of people
Instead I see
A patchwork of working farms
Amid huge tracts of state owned protected wilderness

New York
Ranks in the top 20 agriculturally productive states
Protects more forest wilderland than any state outside Alaska

It is here
That I take refuge
From the insanity that the rest of us claim
To be a normal everyday life
This is my Walden

There is history here

The hands of men have worked this land
For hundreds of years
The feet of humanity have graced this land
For thousands of years

Not far from the farm
There is a lake
Tranquil, moody, opulent in her splendor
Turquoise in the summer sun
But brooding in October
The Native Americans had a name for her
Which they did not fully reveal
Other than to describe her as

The white intruders
Who would eventually mistakenly claim
The water and the surrounding hills to be their own
Could find nothing more fitting to describe her
No better word than

But other names
Did the native people have for this place
Otsego, The place of the rock
Otesaga, The place of meeting

For before the coming of "white" men
This place was held sacred
A place of meeting and of peace
For the many nations of people, who inhabited this land.

They passed this way on their journeys to the northern hunting grounds
They gathered here to exchange ideas and establish territories
And to take council with one another.

The white men left their mark
In the form of buildings and roads
The Natives left their mark
In legend
And the very highways we use today
Follow still, the Indian trails laid down
A thousand years ago

You can catch a glimpse of this historical transition
In the works of James Fennimore Cooper
Who lived here
And is buried here
In a small cemetery, just off Main street

Now tourists come to this place
To watch the leaves turn color
To reflect, on the beauty of the lake
And to visit the baseball hall of fame

Other travelers stop here also
Indifferent to the signs that proclaim the beaches closed
They pass this way
On their long journey southwards
To the winter hunting grounds
Coming and going
As they please

Now I myself stop here
As I come and go
To reflect on the simple beauty of it all
And share it with someone I love
On my way into town

No baseball hall of fame for me
Groceries are the major objective
And some bird seed...