We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered. Kahlil Gibran
We have walked, looked at the actual trees:
The chestnut leaves wide-open like a hand,
The beech leaves bronzing under every breeze,
We have felt flowing through our knees
As if we were the wind.
We have sat silent when two horses came,
Jangling their harness, to mow the long grass.
We have sat long and never found a name
For this suspension in the heart of flame
That does not pass.
We have said nothing; we have parted often,
Not looking back, as if departure took
An absolute of will–once not again
(But this is each day’s feat, as when
The heart first shook).
Where fervor opens every instant so,
There is no instant that is not a curve,
And we are always coming as we go;
We lean toward the meeting that will show
Love’s very nerve.
And so exposed (O leaves before the wind!)
We bear this flowing fire, forever free,
And learn through devious paths to find
The whole, the center, and perhaps unbind
Where there are no roots, only fervent leaves,
Nourished on meditations and the air, Where all that comes is also all that leaves, And every hope compassionately lives Close to despair.
Eery with the waft and wiff of wildlife.
Sad and yet, joyous is their song.
I understand between the lyrics…this, this, is where I belong.
Never to run, a walk is where my curiosity fits.
Though nothing is delicate between the thorns and ivy. And, cagey hills are lonesome and long.
The untamed…a favorite song.
Sanguine and sandal-ed…to the earth is where I belong.
My silhouette of vanity ties me to the beauty.
My silhouette, minuscule, to all of mother’s scenery.
Moist the air that brings to light…cedar chips and all it delights
While cantankerous fowl sweet-talk to be gods of the sky
Eyes open wide while I release the shutters of months left behind
This passage of rites, fool hardy?
Nudged, I arise to this transformation of movement
So, when it stirs, I stir
When it darkens I lament
An eerie sense of comfort in the December mist.
I collect all my faults in…what is unnoticed.
Though, I am not half the woman I think I am.
Isolation in the still-life of rain…
Guards the fact that I am still somewhat…sane.