An elegant name for what is often
considered a weed. Wild carrot. White flower.
They recall a runner my mother placed
on the dining room table for holidays.
A purple drop from a wine glass.
All the rivers run into the sea.
Tributaries, estuaries where fresh meets salt water.
Rivers are always changing, but the cycle
is invariable; all returns to the headwaters.
Man. Water. There is no new thing.
“There is no new thing” – Ecclesiastes 1:7
I am the mystic of this forest.
I am here and I’m not here.
My bare feet are atoms dissolving into
the atoms of the soil, or perhaps
I am the soil, air, the forest.
Inspired in part by this idea from Ralph Waldo Emerson:
“We return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, — no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, — my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite spaces, — all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or parcel of God.”