1. |
Introduction
11:38
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2. |
Winter (Part 1)
09:25
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3. |
Winter (Part 2)
10:53
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4. |
Winter (Part 3)
08:29
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Winter - Daryl Farmer
_____
Silence. Spruce branches bow
with the clinging weight of snow.
The mid-afternoon sun a pale orb
behind thin gray clouds.
A fox’s deep night foray preserved in prints
that lead through trees and brush.
All still as if time too is frozen,
as if the earth’s rotation is taking pause to reflect
on its millenniums of motion. All still, save for the sun
just-risen already on its way down,
and the wood-smoke’s
ghostly rise.
Silence. but for the slow crunch of boots,
so stop. Stand in solemn quiescence,
Wander through the dim dusk,
snow falling, its glimmer like stars.
This long dark, winter fading, now lit by ever-lengthening days
the cold invites solitude, a balm against frenzy.
Birch, some stately as monks, some bent,
like frozen dancers in pose.
Breath clouds, dissipate, rise become air, become the trees,
become the slate for ranges across the deep cold.
It’s the light, that matters here.
alpenglow pink, magenta, seafoam green aurora waves,
the line orange line of twilight just above the horizon now.
No small matter, this light. The
light, the not quite dark snow reflected light of night.
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5. |
Spring into Summer
09:15
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6. |
Fire
06:05
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Fire - Daryl Farmer
_____
Summers I rise bringing my own cackling silence:
You know my flames, my smoke, my warmth,
My orange to blue-flame waves, my black burnt scent.
For centuries, constrained, I have provided,
And yet an entity like I, unleashed, needs the freedom of mayhem,
Needs the particulate release, the invasion of lungs, of bloodstreams,
Needs greedy gluttony, to devour and leave the ashen forest bones
Smoldering in my wake.
Summers I rise bringing my own cackling hiss:
You know my flicker, my dance, my sizzle,
My orange to blue-flame waves, my black burnt scent.
For centuries, constrained, I have provided,
And yet an entity like I, unleashed, needs the roar of chaos,
Needs the particulate release, the invasion of lungs, of bloodstreams,
Needs the greedy gluttony, to devour and leave the ashen forest bones
Smoldering in my wake.
Summers I rise bringing my own cackling rage:
You know my flames, my ash, my heat,
My orange to blue-flame waves, my black burnt scent.
For centuries, constrained, I have provided,
And yet an entity like I, unleashed, needs the power of ruin,
Needs the particulate release, the invasion of lungs, of bloodstreams,
Needs greedy gluttony, to devour and leave the ashen forest bones
Smoldering in my wake.
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7. |
Cycles, Fall, Preserve
13:23
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Preserve - Daryl Farmer
_____
The glacier’s calves
shed and drift out to join the sea.
A slow lament in the water’s rise as
The cold blue ridges fade.
What can be preserved?
What future?
This boreal forest, its
groves, and bogs, and marshes, and lakes.
All spread across three continents.
The thermal balance of its permafrost.
What can be sustained?
What future?
Reintroduced species
bring flora and birdsong,
culture and dreams.
Something once lost
replenished, once broken repaired.
What can be restored?
What future? What hope?
All that this forest provides:
Sustenance, medicine, beauty.
A trail for calm and solitude
at day’s end. Solitude, but not isolation;
reciprocity between our breathing and the trees’.
What can be preserved?
What future?
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8. |
For (the) Time Being
15:01
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