She mutes the haste

I am a pinpoint on the earth

“It is not the language of painters, but the language of nature which one should listen to.”

— Vincent Van Gogh

photo by E. Howard

There are days I cannot move.
There are days I rest in stillness
wondering, is rest hiding?
There are days I press myself 
into service for anyone
everything -- use me
up until I'm dragged 
into silence, please.
What is the use?

I am a pinprick on the earth
alongside the unwary fawn,
alongside that brazen squirrel.
We're all sinking with
the fallen leaves.
I've turned the corner --
I've left youth behind.
I've slipped into the crumbly dirt
between this evergreen's roots --
not willing to be seen,
unable to let go,
and, as always, wondering 
what escape might be like.
What does the pileated woodpecker
feel, winging herself away?

Outside, the world's divided:
That which is planted, and
that which takes root, regardless.
Once I stood in awe
these endless corn fields.

Now I wander in worry:
what to eat, if to drink, 
how survive along the byway,
a common ironweed
shuddering in the gusts 
of Suburban progress.

Let me slip away on a breeze
again tucked into
this pine needle shade.
Her plated bark 
dampens the fury.
She mutes the haste;
occasionally she overshadows 
the droning insistence.

Twilight falls;
night hands me 
off to rest, 
or something like it --
tomorrow is another day.

---

Thank you for reading. For those who subscribe, thank you for being patient, for being present, and for sharing yourself with me.

—

Here’s a little something else for you: The von Trapp grandchildren singing “Fernando” in German, with the big fabulous band of Pink Martini. That is one smiley drummer.

Here’s a link to the full album.

Have a great day.

💖