. . . The beautiful changes as a forest is changed   

By a chameleon’s tuning his skin to it;   

As a mantis, arranged

On a green leaf, grows

Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves   

Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows. . .

~ Excerpt from “The Beautiful Changes,” by Richard Wilbur

Second summer, windows wide. We pass the autumn garden, the watermelon still on the vine and the sunflowers hanging heads under the cloudy, early day. The foliage seems as though it’s off to a brilliant start. I stop at Death Bridge, the view, reddening at the river’s edge. In the wetlands, in the ferns going rusty, the beaded fern flashes jewels. Reminds me of what Luci Tapahonso was saying about Navajo values: the “hard goods,” like hand-made jewelry, how it’s worn to so that the ancestors will see us coming. We are in peaceful days in our home, in the golden light and warm air. Once again, around mid-day, my daughter and I go for a swim in Farm Pond. I want to go every day in this warm weather, every day, I am determined. And it’s warm enough to be thoroughly enjoyed. Yes, these late swims are the best because I feel so fit and strong from summer swims. Charlie follows us, we stay close to the shallow shallows around the island. He is very happy watching the fish swim. In the afternoon I sit in a splendid garden, gorgeously designed and cared for by a dear friend. We sit in the shade in our masks far apart and I feel the quiet soothing of fascinating plants, placed with a creative vision. I have felt tired, irritable today, a simmer inside of sadness and rage and frustration over so many many things, and mostly, today, fear and grief. Facing down the real threat of the loss of a democracy. And outrage. And tiredness, the heaviness of feeling lied to by a leader, so many times each day. The outrage of the loss, unacknowledged, and unaddressed, of this pandemic. And no real, honest relief or remedy for our country to count on. This has happened, It is happening. I stood under the beech in the woods and I was immersed in golden light. And the quiet in my ears was relief. And under the beech, near the beech, in the light of the beech I felt: this is an honest place. Under a beech, the lies of the awful powerful cannot penetrate at least this place.