• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 12
Image by

The Weight of Nature

I might weigh potatoes
or beans or tomatoes,
or items that fit on my scale.
But there’s no way to measure
the ultimate pleasure
of walking a steep mountain trail.

The sounds of the birds,
their incessant words,
the flitting of color, the whoosh of the brook.
The wind in the leaves,
the smell of the trees,
the face of a deer fading where the leaves shook.

A shocked chipmunk’s squeak,
a bright blue jay’s shriek,
bears lumbering out of the wood.
The scold of a squirrel,
an eddy, a swirl—
I’d not trade a thing if I could.

I weigh my potatoes,
my beans and tomatoes,
winter squash, garlic, and peas.
But there’s no way to measure
the infinite pleasure
from mountains, the trails, and the trees.