Packing: A Short Science Poem

So, tree.

Does summer know you’re leaving?


Leaving leaves to senescence?

You’ve shuttered your

first zones, I see.

Closed some taps.

I know your obedience.

your death to self.

Soon, she will too.

Those wrenching tears,

that hard abscission.

First ride blows into town and

you’ll send them packing.





And, IN AN EGGSHELL, SM posts from earlier this week:

Last cutting.

“Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them.”

—Psalm 126:6



Tough Climb.

(Note the raft at lower left, for scale.)

Salmon River, Idaho

“And I will make all my mountains a road . . .”

—Isaiah 49:11




“The first little pig soon met a man with a load of straw. ‘Please, mister, will you give me some straw to build a house?'”



Red-Tail art.

“He has filled them with skill to do every sort of work done by an engraver or by a designer or by an embroiderer in blue and purple and scarlet yarns and fine twined linen, or by a weaver—by any sort of workman or skilled designer.”

—Exodus 35:35


Blessings, friends. I’m glad you’re here.

Watching Nature, Seeing Life: Through His Creation, God Speaks

Posted by

Love the outdoors? I can take you there. Rural & wild PNW posts from a naturalist, faith writer, award-winning author. Member of Redbud Writers Guild. Debut novel—Sugar Birds—launches Aug 3, 2021.

4 thoughts on “Packing: A Short Science Poem

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s