the kind of quiet that comes after some great struggle sets in
i go about my business and read and knit and sit in front of a flick now and then
i try to heed my own advice, and am satisfied with the effect
listen to the songs your soul sings while youre sleeping
keeping open to all thats beautiful and unexpected
gentle with yourself, just sit there, a few sweet seeds in an open, outstretched hand,
and something will rise to its own brave occasion
and come to be called companion
the nights are still full of chirps and whirring
i listened to a troika of some unfamiliar insect triangulated in the trees
each speaking in perfect turn of their Being
the stars are bright and of such a density it is as if they spilled
from some celestial silo across the fallow field of night
the thick river of The Holy Road and the rest in augured constellations
Orion rises now at dawn, and will appear
familiar and encouraging companion of winters long dark contemplations
by the next Turning of the Wheel.
ladies in the waiting room
clucking out farm tales in hushed tones
grandfathers chased around the barn by freshly beheaded turkeys
hypoallergenic alpaca wool
the many virtues of barn cats and the problem of grandchildren
becoming attached to beef cattle
its this, and the old men in greasy plastic gimme caps set high on sun-leathered heads
holding court at the feed store counter with their coffee and packets of crackers
discussing with the self assurance of men who have worked in slow, patient unison
with the very Earth herself for their somehow suddenly failing entireties
the price of corn, the quality of hay, the auction
the antics of grandchildren
the damnable exploits of livestock
its this, and the mist in the lowlands in the morning, the rolling luxury of true Earth
where every moment something is different and beautiful
a bird, a flower, a quality of light
everything a story of something it took a million years to make
that called me here
and keeps me, as close to Home as im likely to be.