A rabbit kickboxing a crow on our puddle of earth…
making mud pies and cherry crisp out of that which grows
along the banks of the river.
We long to eat with the kings and queens of long-forgotten
castles and tip our hats to the pretty ladies as
they stroll by.
Where have they all gone? Fishing? Golden-eyed carp
and bottom dwellers, longing to know the truth,
the way, the stories that the ancestors passed down
generation to generation.
The crabapples fill the streets and the roll down
the hill when the wind blows.
The rains begin to pitter pat on the tin roof and
I long to hear your voice.
I long to journey down the same path that you walked.
Don’t touch it, its a bee. If it lands on you stand still,
don’t touch it.
Find a stick, act like a turtle, what noise does a turtle make?
The sun shines down thru the leaves as they cling
to the branches waiting for the last warm day…
turning colder and then to frozen ice as
it clings to them as a small child holds tight to
their mother’s leg.
The third coming of the blackberries…
racing with time, chasing faster than a roadrunner,
a jackrabbit, running to outwit the first frost.
It’s a game that we like to play.
Wondering how long the growing season can be stretched
before the frost falls on the pumpkins and turns everything
to mush.
It’s a long road, a dirt path, no creatures in sight that have
been domesticated for man-kinds evil ways.
Only wild animals, jackals, long-eared owls, coyotes
and Bob-bob-whites speak up.
They know that we are out of our element…
but they have learned to live and let live.
Something that we humans are just now starting to grasp.
We come together along this stretch of wild roses,
and winding roads, we learn about our heart
and how its connected to every creature.
We smile as the younger man on the bicycle passes this way.
Fall has come, we must find a hollowed out old tree
to snuggle up within…
or find where the bicycle is parked and
see if our heart has at last found its resting ground.
The jet-black dog pulls against his collar
and digs a hollow in the dirt to sleep for the chilly winters night.
Our puddle of earth brings us warmth,
a burning fire at our hearth
and a sense of Belonging to a greater good.
The Lama Writings 