“The
things themselves, familiars of their names,
He
saw as science and Genesis and sense:
Creek
water pure and cold from leeched gray clays,
The
cottonwood, crab apple, sassafras,
The
purple morning glory, goldenrod,
The
black-eyed Susans, cattails, chinquapins,
Loblolly
bogs where rare white arums thrive,
Celestial
lilies, star grass, spiderwort—
Such
uttered substance once had been a speech,
A
rhetoric made tremulous with love.”
The
catalogue of plants warms me like a sweater. Even growing up in the North I
knew most of them. “Chinquapins” refers to at least six different plants and Middleton
might mean the American lotus, a sort of water lily, or the Ozark chestnut. I
grew up calling arums “swamp lilies.” “Celestial”
is not an adjective but part of the common name for one of the most beautiful
flowers I know, Nemastylis floridana. In
the same span of the spectrum is the blossom of the spiderwort. I miss the
seasonal tease that traditionally comes in February in upstate New York, when
temperatures top freezing for a day or two, drifts melt in the woods, the skunk
cabbage burns through the snow and you can smell the newly thawed earth, rich
with decay.
Dave
Lull this week alerted me to The Forest Unseen: A Year’s Watch in Nature (Viking, 2012) by David George Haskell, a
professor of biology at Sewanee: The University of the South, in Sewanee, Tenn.
The book is a recounting of Haskell’s almost daily visits to a patch of forest in
Tennessee for a year, and is organized chronologically. The entry for Jan. 1
nicely echoes my experience of mid-winter even farther north:
“The
New Year starts with a thaw, and the fat, wet smell of the woods fills my nose.
Moisture has plumped the mat of fallen leave that covers the forest floor, and
the air is suffused with succulent leafy aromas.”
No comments:
Post a Comment