November

Now, at sixty,
I know that feelings, however powerful, won’t do me in.
But back then,
in the tumultuous time of figuring out who I was, I clung to a few things to keep me afloat.

Making pictures with a camera that captured light on film in a darkroom where silver prints emerged magically in trays of pungent chemicals;

A few captive friends and supportive teachers, eager, or at least willing, to look at my most recent prints;

And trees,
A giant copper beech with undersides of branches light, like human arms;

Maples on either side of a narrow walk, brilliant yellow, lighting up Fall when daylight diminished;

Trees that showed no sign of wavering when they lost their leaves, when they faced winter with only skeletal limbs;

Trees that budded and burst into green when days lengthened and spring arrived.

I visited after a long absence.
Stalwart buildings were alive with new purpose.
Gone, the giant copper beech, ravaged by invisible disease. But a new one grows back—less prominent and thriving.