Two Poems By Therese Halscheid
Forest Bathing
— known in Japan as shinrin-yoku, forest bathing involves taking in the forest atmosphere through the senses
And so, what I am saying is we entered autumn.
And that the trail was scented. And this was mainly because of
the colorful leaves — fluttering down but also
the moist earth was fragrant, as was the ground cover
from needles that had long dropped
from the enormous pines.
There were sounds as well. I am speaking of
the wind in the branches. Where the trees waved us in
we entered the woods. Then deeper we walked
on a trail where giant limbs folded over us
like a wave cresting there were splashes of color.
Sunlight dappled the ferns.
We continued after that, my friend and I, to an area
where smaller things flourished, like winterberries and thistles
and where milkweed stood among the gnarled vines.
Only time itself was not able to grow.
Suddenly our feet moved us onward, though it seemed
as we moved we were locked in a spell.
What I am saying is that we were bathed by the trees
while the wind bent their branches and again
they swayed over us before a different wind came
and then they drew back — like the coming and going
of an ocean there were waves of energy.
It was something the woods was doing subtly, certainly
we sensed this as a place the silent heart could penetrate,
and the constant talk of the mind could stop.
My Father a Tree
Should my father reincarnate while I am alive,
I ask that he arrive as a sudden windblown seed
one that willingly falls to earth, takes hold,
soon turns into a sapling.
This would occur in a woods I know, and I would know
his leaves as the familiar wave of his hands —
arms branching outward to embrace, reaching for light
as his feet start to root.
I would see him as a standing being, but more so
will know the tree as my father.
Tall. Sturdy. Sapwood flowing with healthy
honey-colored blood.
It would be an intuited thing, that while walking
through the woods, no matter the season, no matter
the fog moving through to blur his shape —
that at first glance I could pick him out.
When pressing my palm to his trunk
we could transfer messages to each other.
Above all else I would say to my father a tree
I would say to him: Nothing here will ever damage you.
You will only age in wisdom, I would add.
This time, I will be sure to say, when the strongest storms
begin to blow, your body will be touched
by nothing more than some rain.
About the Author
Therese Halscheid’s poetry and essays have been published in numerous magazines, among them Gettysburg Review, Tampa Review, Sou’wester and Columbia Journal. Her poetry collections include Frozen Latitudes, Uncommon Geography, Without Home, Powertalk and a Greatest Hits chapbook award. She holds an MA and MFA and teaches creative writing in varied settings that have included an Eskimo village in northern Alaska, and in the Ural Mountains of Russia. For more than two decades she has lived simply to write, by way of house-sitting. She especially likes house-sits in rural areas. Her photography chronicles her journey and has been in several juried exhibitions. See website: ThereseHalscheid.com