Here’s a little wanderlust inspired snippet to remind you to get outside and notice. There are no small things.
How the acrid hamlets of beneath-log worlds beckon
To faerie hordes seeking cheap rent.
While the construction noise of flicker-rattle interrupts the raven’s sky rage rant,
And fae folk scowl with tinker noses scrunched.
Micha’s golden fish scales, peppering paths,
like midas scattered his trailing tears.
And though foolish told to low-lying men in suits,
Lie they glittering, priceless to me
and the passing of my staggered step.
I would wedge my heart beneath the logs, and gladly sublet.
Mornin’ kids. I hope your Thursday is starting off sweet and slow.
No matter what your plans are or how many ‘to-do’s’ you’ve packed into this day, carve out some time to get outside and find your quiet.
Gray cascades of fogged memory
Blanket the distance
And everything seems so much closer now
Kinetic in wait.
The world was never so quiet
Nor so still.
Even as rain needles pierce my neck
And trace frozen rivulets down the valley of my shoulder blades.
More pleasant a day I have not lived.
Here in the stillness.
The quiet and uncomfortable
The shivering slip of feet and
Scuffed against granite and lichen
In search for hold.
How we’ve come to fear being alone.
How we shy from homegrown reflections,
And shudder at the thought
Of being solitary amid the rain and rock.
We don’t even know to mourn
The tremendous loss
of keeping our own company.
Perhaps the gray residing in our hearts would be lessened,
The stormy mind;
Hurricane of worry and doubt, would dissipate
If we more often paroled our bodies to the rough beauty of nature
The purity of what is real might bring us back ’round.
Clarity borne from the muddled haze.
Despite the urge to limerick you with inappropriate words that rhyme with Enis, I’ll attempt to reach for something more high brow… Enjoy!
I spring up from the heart of a wooded path.
The smell of pine needles breaking down, and the crackle of acrid leaves
Feed my roots
The heat rising from Earth, through dirt and granite.
The brush of seeded grasses,
Passing along their generations to my body as I stride on.
The scratch of bark,
The quiet bending of grass
The warning cry of finch and chickadee,
Telling me in no uncertain terms
That I don’t belong.