We cut things down,
hack, slash back towards horizons,
eyes ever reaching for an expanse of sky
to settle upon the edge of land,
as if just to know this blue view,
to open a swathe of light,
is a freedom in itself.
The next time we look across a meadow
as it motions, wavers under the spell
of unseen forces, and we find our gazes
lengthening into the distance, a deep breath,
that instinct will rise in us again,
engender a yearning,
how our feet will make a pathway there.
Because even in the dry seasons, even
in the midst of emptiness, punctuated
by the raised hands of lonely stands of trees,
unable to bridge their canopy, unable
to talk to one another, or
where the meat of earth has hardened,
a desiccation, and we feel it in the tightening
of our throats, a wringing, and
the closer to the ground we descend
so we sense time slowing
as if we were drowning - a gap that widens
between us and today's chosen god.
But still we will crown ourselves a grass king,
tie wishful knots in a blade of it,
wear it, burn it, watch the turns
of greens and yellows, we will bind our hope;
measure it in the proximity to water.
And the stream, the taste of it, the pebbles
I swallowed, sat knock-knocking their burdens
in the bed of my stomach, we cut things down,
we clip them back - yes,
love is its own kind of suffering,
and in this suffering we notice we are alive.
Image is from pixabay. Image on Twitter also is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%27Crossing_the_Prairie%27_by_Jules_Tavernier.jpg