The sun was out, it was warm,
and the wind was alive-
pushing long stalks of corn
eastward toward the river.
I remember the smell,
and the sight of the dust following
my footsteps; having created a small
amount of life in my wake.
I smiled as I reached the riverbank.
I smiled as I sat on a large rock,
and I smiled as I opened my thoughts.
A family member shared delicate news.
I’m looking out my window,
watching the rain.
I hope the test is negative.
I pray the test is negative.
He’s a good man.
A strong thinker
with great faith.
I’ve always watched the rain.
I think I’ll sit here a little longer.
It’s a strange feeling,
in your mind.
Then you catch yourself
and you’re back again.
What is that.
Our own thoughts came around again. Funny how that happens. A floor holding an image of a mirror came back. Someone wanted something. Watch as the floor says nothing, having seen twice what was once, and then watch as the voice asks for more.
Sometimes we would twist our face
into a blue towel to see what was real.
Take a seat on today. Watch the birds.
Listen to their laughter. Be with them.
Expressions adrift like wildfire,
spreading- unavailable ribbons of safety
ripped from the hands of the just and
given to the hounds of the hill
Lay us near the side of our brook. We’ll listen and observe a thing burn inside, like we did. Turn again in the mud, smell the ferns, wash the ‘self’, and watch as soul sinks in. Man in a white coat wants to ask how, doesn’t matter much. He’ll be here, or not, again. Seems to us a brook is a fine place to be. It’s always about something. So we see, and we do what there is to do about the seeing until, finality.