The
slowly sinking ridges of
the
far-off mountain gap
drawl
me all along their edges
to
the fields of random
bushes,
brush, and trees
below.
To
the creek,
to
the creek at the bottom
at
the bottom
of
the purpling clumps of brambles.
There
is a cunning that
comes
from being able
to
survive out there –
out
there against all
of
the odds of the
things
my insides would
have
me to do.
A
cunning that knows
just
what wood I should
gather
for my fire;
just
what branches I need
to
start it;
so
I may
ease
into the
gentle
wholeness it calls
out
of me. The wholeness
of
men, and trails, and woods,
and
all of the odds it takes to
survive.
The wholeness
of
things my crimes would
not
be able to call forth
out
of my depths.
How
to burn despair
into
the ash of hope;
how
to weave anger
into
learning to stay
alive;
how to turn a whim
into
patience and no act
that
would harm my chance
at
being free.
There
is a cunning in
tending
to the deeper
pieces
of my me; one
that
sets me to thrive
and
not just simply
to
survive with that
impulse
to have.
And
so,
I
climb atop the
hill
that possesses me,
to
the mountaintop that
gives
me view of
all
that is spread so
gently
all around.
And,
from this vantage point
I
ask myself, “Do I have
what
I need within my
soul? What I need
to
make my way through
all
I see out there?”
photo by author
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