Clearing

a space in a place

Hi Friend!

Here’s a poem.

Clear

you stop, not at the top, not the peak,
but at some intermediary location
along the way, off the trail, but on a path
set out by others through the ferns
and other low growing greens. you are 

hungry. your food is dry fruit and nuts,
the stuff that fuels and will not go rank
in the heat of your daypack, but the technique
of twisting the sack around while walking
has never been your style. to focus on such

a thing while moving through such a place
would ruin those precious moments reserved
for observation and sensation. so you stop.
a man is already there in the clearing at the
end of the path through the ferns and other

low growing greens. he is propped against
a stump. his bag rests on exposed rocks
across the small expanse of soft soil. at
first he seems asleep, but he speaks, softly,
mumbling hums through his rippled

full beard. he says he hears the tide.
he says he feels the moon’s pull.
he says the mountain has a voice
but he can’t quite discern the words.
he locks eyes with you and nods

for you to sit in the small expanse of
soft soil and listen with him. eyes of
invitation and want of confirmation of
the vibrations he feels. you reach in the heat of 
your daypack and eat your dried fruit and nuts.

in wordy wordiness,

Walter