As Vincent Willem Van Gogh said, “…and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?”  Explore nature through poetry. Feeling inspired to write a few words of your own? Share it with us at!

Weekly Poems

Fall, a Song by John Denver

Reflections in the water like shadows in my mind

Speak to me of passing days and nights and passing time

The falling leaves are whispering, “Winter’s on its way,”

I close my eyes, remembering the warmth of yesterday

It seems a shame to see September swallowed by the wind

And more than that, it’s, oh, so sad to see the summer end

And though the changing colors are a lovely thing to see

If it were mine to make the change, I think I’d let it be

But I don’t remember hearing anybody asking me


I think he knows I’m alive, having come down

The three steps of the back porch

And given me a good once over. All afternoon

He’s been moving back and forth,

Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs,

While all about him the great fields tumble

To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky

To be where he is, wild with all that happens.

He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows

Living in the blond heart of the wheat.

This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires

Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots,

Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter

On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.

Reference Link: 

there will be moments when

you will bloom fully and then

wilt, only to bloom again.

if we can learn anything from

flowers it is that resilience is born

even when we feel like we are 



Green valleys stretching wide

with patchworking in brown

and it’s my home. 

I’ve walked every inch of the


Strayed from path and beaten trail

(though I never passed

them by without having

tried them once).

Idled beside cold trickling


and watched deer pass


full of beauty.

My heart is here

buried mid the dust

will be eroded by the rains

tempered by the winds and

winter snows.

But never shall it be 

extracted nor extricated

For its roots are in the


deep in the earth

holding fast

and strong

to that which it holds

dear. – JWD

Source: “Nature’s Quiet Conversations” by John Weeks (p.103)

The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.
Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.
It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.
My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound
seemed to turn the weather.

Silence again. The glorious symphony
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds cease,
Save hum of insects’ aimless industry.
Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry
Of color to conceal her swift decrease.
Weak subterfuge! Each mocking day doth fleece
A blossom, and lay bare her poverty.
Poor middle-aged summer! Vain this show!
Whole fields of Golden-Rod cannot offset
One meadow with a single violet;
And well the singing thrush and lily know,
Spite of all artifice which her regret
Can deck in splendid guise, their time to go!


Click here to find more seasonal poetry!