Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser
I had many things planned for this precious life,
but I’ve since learned that planning is a binding,
a tether, a grip that, when taken up in earnest,
keeps us from freely roaming all of the grand
possibilities. Like old mountains, and cricketed
fields, and long, edgy shorelines.
Now, not knowing is my practice. It works okay.
On most days, and some nights. The dark-skied ones.
I think that mystery is the only medicine for the
wild soul that nags at the feet restlessly;
predictability and sameness pain its true nature.
This, I understand.
Summer is going somewhere, but not in any way
that we can imagine. I could tell you things:
A battered white moth will lose itself to
the chill surrounding a porch light.
The sunflowers will hang their heavy
finch-beaded heads until their bodies snap
and they lie there, welcoming the molds.
The bird voice that was your awakening for
four straight months is gone, but you will be
confounded as to why you overslept.
And, the bear, the bear cares about nothing
more than its belly. You’ll come around a
sharp curve in the trail and, startled by
form and scent, halt. The bear’s head is in
thick duff and acorns. You don’t matter.
But that won’t be it. It will be something else
entirely; more bold and more subtle.
I want the next day to be that for me.
(c) 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press
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