I ache, like the fallen tree before me.
These farming fields so…solemn, soulful and, slightly…alone.
Peace is here.
It is in the catching of our breath.
Flying on gusts for a thousand miles.
I could find the unity…
If, the terrain, and I, were all that is left.
It has been windy here.
Seems…for a whole life.
Perhaps, that is what feeds a New England appetite.
If you buy the land.
It should be worked.
If you walk the land.
It should be cherished.
If you live the land.
So shall you die.
How do we prosper when still unsure?
Ravishing the soil…is not the cure.
A worker among thieves.
Fanning out among the glamour trees.
To behold the fern.
Is to be exact.
Feeling its fingers…
Nimble in the in between.
Braiding the sun.
assaying in and out of life.
As if, fulfilling the gaps of a ponderous dream.
I cannot say why I find the fern so fascinating.
It seems miraculous.
Always kneeling, praying, waiting.