They wore modesty like a cape
or an astrology sign. Born to
the land of their serving. Wisdom
each stitch of their blue jeans.
A romance of the hands. Attention
and knowing make new, much to
the dismay of smithereens.
They called wood by its family name
and held the goat just so, until resting,
immobile.
A small, all encompassing world.
The mantra of the plains, the
sower meditating. Wandering
near and there, far and here to
the steady sway of a corn stalk chorus.
—
So become again
the lineage of you.
Falling into rhythm,
the river bends on time.
Here at the brink
of the field you
leave your shoes
at the car and walk
steadily into town
or time.
What we are
depends upon
what we love.
This poem is a celebration of place and is about the act of returning. Returning to places, returning to people, returning attention back to the things that matter most, returning to the ground and, in that, removing the barriers in-between.
In writing it, I’m reminded of a few lines by the poet David Whyte (enjoy him reading them near rushing water):
“It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.”
It also makes me think of the Hayao Miyazaki film Princess Mononoke in which the Forest Spirit is both the creator and the destroyer of things. Each step brings sprouts plant life and each step away causes it to decay instantly. Returning to the ground is both life and death.