So few are my misguided thoughts on religion…whilst in the arms of a golden, August day.
I could walk forever into the unknown…bathing in the silver lining of a sunflower’s intoxicating…glow.
I could even dare all tomorrow’s…in the deep, stare of a steer’s gaze.
Now and always, deep in the musky, wild…sorrow weakens.
Worry becomes less bold.
I understand all that is not mine….because the stillness of humid air tells me so.
Crab Apple perfumes my mind…
I live to let go.
All this and so much more…
helping snappers across Morrill road…
Is the only religion I need to know.
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.
The streets that I stray…
dusty with emerald mystery.
Still they call my name.
All thoughts and fears…
pebbled with blind trust.
To be a wild winged bird…
I would not know where to start.
To whisper into the wind…
I would not know where to begin.
Drifting has become a part of my woolen and woodsy need to be there.
With every nesting squirrel.
With all wild lingerers…
I roam just to be.
I wonder what nature sees of me…when pretending not to be?
Does she see me as a threat to her luminosity?
Do the robins nest further up a shady pine?
Is my manner of awe and unsure footing a hindrance to her placating design?
As my oar settles into her complacently, mysterious, waters…does she sense that my intentions…are unkind?
One foot after another, I go back to her response.
The whistle through broken limbs and the frigteningly, gothic music that descends.
If there be admiration, it is one sided.
In nature’s woods…it is just pretend.
I drive these back roads…
reminded of home.
Long, desperate, going places that have passed along.
Gritty browns with nameless…greens.
A picturesque, quaint, scene.
I have aged like farm-stand cheddar.
Tart but tasteful. with a woodsy trace.
Though life has sped up.
I manage to find a slower pace.
In a quest for deeper appreciation…
I delve further.
Listening for a weathered sound.
There are no wrong turns…
In my veiled valleys.
Just moss under my wheels.
And, a love for nature’s folly.