The Path
There is a wide and varied path ahead of me.
I sink my feet into the Earth at the start,
otherwise I will hover above myself, unsettled.
I look to a point on the horizon I cannot see.
No matter. Others wiser than I will be my guides.
My teachers; great arts, the Earth and philosophy
spread their palms to the vast wonder of ordinary life.
The painter of landscapes and old shoes understands
the equal delight that resides in both.
The ancients who simply sit and breathe
know where wisdom lives and truth hides.
And nature, the oldest, yet youngest at heart
awakens our tranquillity from its buried depths.
A Summer Storm
I walked into a thunderstorm today.
Already too far to turn back,
a cardinal and crow appeared on my path.
The red and black so extraordinary,
a warning or a welcome, I did not know.
The sky, an increasing, encroaching grey
burst sharp flecks upon my skin.
The leaves shivered, the stream bloated and surged.
A thump of thunder scared me
but it was not a deep fear,
not the kind that sparkles in your spine
and makes your hands light.
Only a heightening of neglected senses.
I felt the textures under my thin soles changing.
The bright shelled path, now sticky with moisture,
the crumbly gravel thickening into lumps.
I hid beneath a tree and discovered lace-nibbled leaves, rough and dry,
untouched by the tormenting torrent.
And through the tumult rose accordion-bellowing tree frogs,
ecstatic and invisible as the light departed.
The Girl in the Puddle
We eat our picnic in the car, a gushing storm holds us captive.
We eat carefully, quietly, no room to be playful. But as the world comes into view, I notice a girl lounging in a puddle.
Her strong limbs stretch out, as if she’s sunning herself on the shore. She waves with the exuberant smile of innocence, needing nothing but what she has. Hers is a gift too great to be measured. I already grieve at the loss, for I know it will be taken, as it is from us all.
So artful is the thief that we do not see him come and we do not see him leave. His hands tip the hourglass of our youth so we remember, and we remember less until what we felt once upon a time is something we only wonder at. A charming, yellowed photograph, too grainy to inspect.
As the downpour thins, the girl rises from the water. She strolls home, her bare feet unmoved by sharp stones. And our coiled spines straighten as we release ourselves to join the day.
«LEITURA RELACIONADA» POEMS BY MAX REIF: A Rant on War as an Atavism, Playing With Fire»
imagem: Pixabay
