Like a gnarled old man
The elder of the land
With a mighty presence
And so we believe ourselves conscious
When every pattern we create
Has already been created
In our unconscious
I think I erect boundaries
To protect myself from what’s not me
But my boundaries
Enclose me
And so I define myself
Not by what is me
But by what is not me
Leaving no other possibility
Is like adding
Sprinkles
To frosting
Overshadowed by
The snow-capped mountains
Beyond
Mineral
Patina
Like coffee
And tea stains
Such exquisite beauty
Some get the blues
They can’t condone
The forest stripped
To barest bone
Like today, in this dry desert heat
With only the apples from yesterday
A can of baked beans, for a campfire dinner
And tomorrow morning’s apple-cinnamon oatmeal
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