Fingers Going, Fingers Comng

This poem, from Fred Lape’s col­lec­tion, ​“Along the Schoharie,” cel­e­brates the almost mys­ti­cal con­nec­tions between the human and the nat­ur­al world and between the present, the past, and the future. 

In the door­yard elms the robins are singing
among the dew wet leaves, the shin­ing branch­es,
and here I stand where my father stood,
their bright­ness on me, as he once loved it.

Down by the brook in the dewy mead­ow
deer poise nose wrin­kled at the water.
So some­one years from now will find them.

New birds, new deer, new trees, new water,
the cycle binds us in like music.
We lean and rest, we stretch our hands
over the pass­ing gen­er­a­tions. You past,
you com­ing, here are my fin­gers touching.