With sky clear and cold
the park populates again –
lovers side by side,
infants in their strollers,
the face of an elderly man
alight with recognition.
Rain kept them away,
soaking the fallen leaves
and thankful soil,
dropping us into origin,
the mystery within the earth
our fingers will not grasp;
dark along the root,
her ancient song yet singing.
Even here in the high desert our soil is saturated with deep, dark old magic I don’t need to remember. The earth holds it sacredly for me as I walk, knowing that my every footprint is imbued with the fresh, new, higher magic of my spirit.
The rich substance of darkness
holding in the seasons of change
the potential for those wonderful forms
savored in this walk –
toward the freedom
which has always been
It’s not in me to raise a poetic response to this but it makes me want to try. Nice poem, Don. More than nice … inspiring.