It’s still too cold for a barefoot walk through the wet grass. And yet I’m tempted. Let it be a short walk, across the yard and back. Hands on one of the broad limbs of the fig tree, I listen to the neighbor’s firs creaking in the wind. Lines; grooves; the pigmentation of aged but youthful skin. It’s not that I’m afraid to let go; it’s the earth’s grounding force that keeps me holding on. Then a turn with the birch, smooth, paper-white, a suburban sailor clinging to the mast. Tell me, what is the past? Tell me. Tell me again. Is it where I’ve been? Where I am? Is it in these hands, which have not forgotten what it is to be a timeless, ancient man?
March 21, 2021
[ 1054 ]
Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Birches, Diaries, Earth, Figs, Firs, Flesh and Spirit, Grounding, Journals, Poems, Poetry, Wind