Under a disorderly meadow’s shadow,
as day topples past noon, sky
a semblance of some thirty years,
when eyeline was just below my knee
and horizon, a sharp grass blade,
wildlife hides with an occasional scurry,
this field gives a sneeze, then settles again.
Brow creases, my mind focuses
on a two century old companion; runs rings
around my brief trip on this host planet.
Each notch on its bark, fascination,
map lines for insects to traverse
the original skyscrapers and today, I wonder
thinking back, how many more junctions
life has yet to carve in me.
Now, in this canopied quietness I stop,
listen, feet extended to where my shoes
lay discarded on the ground, roots felt
through socks as times when I’ve tripped,
hair leaning against nature’s memories,
each strand interwoven with the sway
of wildflowers. Yellow ones under the chin,
“Do you like butter?” they still ask in a
With the green inland sea all around, I drift
into afternoon, the sound of oars, breezed
branches that drift in half closed eyes.
Silhouettes against the sky’s glare give images
like black and white timbered houses. I wonder,
if they have a room for me,
for though I love
this place, I wish I was somewhere beyond
human perception, some would call it paradise,
I would call it the edge
before the end of the world.