I go where nothing’s bitter
and nothing sweet,
only clear water
below the mountain,
cleansed by stone
in dark caverns,
given to the light.

Looking down the broad avenue
a strange tidal river runs
of cars, trucks and bicycles
flowing into the city
on the gravity of commerce;
wires and cables cross tall trees
driven to the pavement,
supporting a tangle of electricity.
I look past the roar and metal
to the distant sky, yet wonder
about these solitary poles
indentured in servitude,
shorn of root and branch
but standing in tight whorls of age,
bearing the weight of industry
yet sentient in their isolation,
invisible roots pushing down,
leaves of imagination fluttering
with the lost breath of a hillside,
the gentle sway of wind and season,
a memory of life for those who have forgotten.

Your story rests within the earth
old and unending,
rising from the deep forest
on gnarled and twisted roots
to the lifting trunk
and furthest branches.
A story of one life
with all its suffering
and struggle to renew,
year upon year, ring after ring,
yielding finally to the authentic,
becoming exactly who you are
with your story released
into the blue and open sky.

The solar arc turns southward
as the high days of long light
begin their descent to autumn.
The aberration of war continues
yet beneath layers of leaf and root
an older rhythm commands
rivers to the sea, hummingbirds
to cross the broad equator and soul
to gather the ancient pulse
into a new day.

Wings to the sky, the sea bird
heads out across the water,
such faith in a feather lifted
above the wind stirred sea,
the heart beat yearning
for what may be found
on the further shore.