Standing on the ledge
Letting rage flow away
Wounds upon my soul
Close and begin to heal
Spectator at the edge
Close enough to feel the spray
Of power’s fearsome rush
For every branch
A thousand leaves
For every fork
A thousand more
Just keep the faith
And carry on
I’ll find the way
Back to your heart
Call it a canyon
Or call it a rut
A pretty enough rut, you say
Perhaps… but still a rut
So I scamper out
Leaving a trail
Of dusty memory
Seeking the open vista above
The expanse of the big sky
A land of possibility
Then wonder why why why?
Can’t we find a way
To share our world today
But the years of consciousness
I could count
In just an afternoon
And my own years
Rattled off in seconds
In the vast pre-history
Of consciousness
This beauty unremarked
But do my remarks
Or those of others
Make the beauty so?
And the creatures
Which skittered there
Having barely left the sea
I think of a wave
And the littlest living things
Awash in the foaming ocean
Not so unlike
The littlest living things
Swishing over my feet in the surf
Pix to Words 