Forest Tales Path, 2019
Bronze sculptures installed in the Leggett Woods property in Stow, Massachusetts, commissioned by the Stow Concentration Trust. The Leggett Woods is entered on Whitman Street near the intersection with Gleasondale Road (Route 62). Follow the path a short distance keeping to the left at the first intersection and you will come upon the grove of sculptures. The paths between them are covered with wood chips (or snow). Enjoy finding all of the acorn-capped woods folks.
Poet, Susan Edwards Richmond, wrote a suite of five poems, Story Hour, Leggett Woodland, inspired by the sculptures. They are printed below with the accompanying sculpture.
The Acrobats
1.
How do you define joy?
Is it the arc of riding another’s back,
where she leans over, a sturdy platform
from which he launches, arms raised?
Two figures, but you can’t imagine them
unjoined, one depending on the other’s
balance, ballast, anchor, wings.
Caps upward, forward, bronze feet
dig into moss, then solid rock,
boulder sunk into deeper ground,
the way I curl my toes into carpet
or floorboards, and feel the same,
what I’m built upon, what’s part of me
I couldn’t abide sundering.
The root is a screw in the rock,
drilled and epoxy set, permanent.
Though that word we can’t take lightly,
I saw the sculptor fix it in the wood.
And who can say it’s not
her gift to permanence,
whatever that comes to mean.
Caps for Sale
The Storyteller
I loved reading to my three children and made this sculpture with them in mind.
Froggie
2.
This is what I bring, not caps for everyone,
but for a few. I’m drying out
after a soaking rain, having rescued
my prize from the mulch of the wood.
You can’t see me if you’re looking,
which is why I’ve arranged today
for all you nonbelievers, who don’t know
the forest is your home
with its infinite rooms and rugs,
furniture and drapes. You modeled
your living spaces after mine, knowing
what you liked best, the shelter of caves,
the music of jays calling their names,
the sturdiness of rock but with cushion
underfoot. Now I’m pleading with you,
“Come back. You’ve been away too long.”
Look at my striped eye, my flaming sides.
I am the jewel you once strived
to represent, when you made from these
pillars of trees your most convincing god.
The Thinker
Handstander
3.
My posture aligns with the forest
but I reverse expectations.
If I were taller would you
mistake me for a tree?
I have chosen to wear my hats on my hands
as well as my head. You can’t be too sure
of surfaces, manners, the need for protection.
Every oak seed takes this oath
when it leaves its high-wire act to commune
with soil or the innards of a squirrel.
Doffing it only when settled, when certain,
or when uncrowned by nature’s forces.
To affect the loss of trees in this clearing,
what if I become one, my legacy hanging
toes to the sky, hands to the earth?
All of us must pledge something,
make the deep dive. If not,
we’re as ephemeral as leaves
whispering to the wind, whichever
way it blows. Someday we’ll all fall
to the ground to become
something bigger. Better be ready.
One-Handed Handstand
Mother and Child
4.
She is the one without a cap,
no protection from the rain or wind.
She sits in the lea of stone, moss backed
rock rising in a peak behind her body.
The sun touches her head briefly,
her right thigh a burnished glow.
Her infant stays shade-cradled
in solid arms. And will never leave.
Ode to Joy
Friends
Talking to Turtle
5.
The slow plod of conversation takes us to the forest
floor, our nails scuttling, scratching on leaves.
Your feet flail and strive with the certainty of instinct;
my human perambulations have no such explanations.
It’s why we wait in a quiet corner for wisdom to age us
into art. The scoots on your shell, always thirteen,
always that uneasy number. Is it true, I’d like to ask you,
that we were born on the backs of your ancestors,
that the egg did not come first, that our first meals
were bloodworm and nymph, and a sharp snap
preceded all words? Now, as we lean together
in unfettered talk, you are my endearing fairytale
turtle, and I dream of riding you like I ride
any story, full on into the hatch of the waves.