Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger

Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident

Constant spring rain and intense, if periodic, summer sun have encouraged the grasses and bushes on both sides of the creek to heights I had not seen. Their greens and browns are sprinkled with the bright pinks of the steeplebush. 

The steeplebush is a tall plant that attracts attention only with its narrow, spike-like clusters of color that appear in late June or July. It grows wild here but is sufficiently attractive that their seeds can also be purchased for gardens. It used to be called hardhack, as farmers had difficulty cutting it back.

 In another culture it might have been called pyramid bush, or arrowhead. Its leaves serve a medicinal function as an astringent. Butterflies and other nectar-feeding insects love them, so creek walkers can find in mid-summer a blast of colors emanating from a butterfly at work on a steeplebush cluster. 

“Steeple Bush” is also the name of one of Robert Frost’s last collection of poems, published in 1947. This man whose life was filled with melancholy, even depression, dedicated the volume to his grandchildren and therefore, to the future. 

The first stanza of the second poem includes, “steeple bush is not good to eat, Will have crowded out the edible grass.” He continues with describing how the trees will replace the bushes, and the plow with fall the trees, then the grasses will return in “a cycle we’ll say of a hundred years.” He advocates patience and leaving time to take its course. The final couplet is “Hope may not nourish a cow or horse, but specs alit agricolam ‘tis said.” 

“Specs alit agricolam” is the motto of a very old British farming family. It translates “Hope sustains the farmer.” The colors of the steeplebush, its nectar that attracts more color to it, enlivens the landscape like specs of hope in a green field of, at best, indifference. 

Today I scan the news, looking for something to sustain me. If I read any small message as reassuringly lovely as a butterfly on a steeplebush amidst a field of weeds, I am comforted. Hope sustains us all.