A Coldness

I reach down deep in the dirt 

and there is a coldness.

Not the coldness of being rude, 

but the coldness of rugged surviving.

Surviving against all odds; 

surviving in the face of a 

fierce and mighty foe.

Thistles grow like this.

Heather grows like this.

In the face of death, 

some people grow like this - 

grow towards deep 

strength and coldness.

Standing on the edge 

of the waters,

the purple and the mist are 

a ways off. They lift 

me up and bolster me 

from my heart.

Seals and gulls flop 

and poke themselves 

through the seaweed, 

looking for treasures 

and for things to do.

They are toughened by this.

They have saved themselves for 

life and for death - being able 

to play. They have saved themselves 

from building bridges, and roads 

and nuclear reactors.

They all slip, back into the cold, 

surviving against all odds, against 

the desire to overdo and subdue.

Against the desire to create monstrous 

chaoses that they will become unable 

to live without. And soon, unable to live 

with. They slip through the golden 

weeds, soaked with wet chill cold, and 

are gone.

13 September 1995