A Swag, No Roads and Alive
Caught between dark corners and a great open,
Where mountain air breathes her soul.
When she rolls out of her swag each morning,
Waiting for the sun to drench night’s
Chilled earth beneath her bare feet,
Remembering warmth in a smile,
ventures out into so many places,
Those places of living hearts,
And breathing dreams.
Where no well can draw her focus,
In those directions as a point vanishes,
Somewhere between distance and time spent at depth,
Forgetting a well rambles between water, bedrock, and sand,
Though sometimes, tall grass will hide,
One in those endless dry seasons,
It’s all best to think to shorten it first.
Until after reading, and reading again,
A changing land for one reason or another,
These words “No more. No more! No more…”
Escape, but don’t hinder to mind,”
Not sure why, but her heart,
Is sad for the world, and the worlds of people,
Cultures and languages right now,
Though what if those three promises rang out
Promises her eyes saw in a carefully folded pocket note,
What if they rang out everywhere,
Perhaps being alive, it would all be different.
For how many enter, how many leave in a day, a season,
And who will share a story? For small nooks get to listen,
In on all, such as those transits to being alive, listening, participating.
Reminded her of a quick drop, an instant tour down a thirty foot well,
How many decades ago. Amongst tall grasses and her ghosts,
Still echo this far on in time, never pausing to converse on something else,
While her days in the tropics, when a poem by another writer,
Draws a deeper colour from the sky, to paint a picture of places,
Places a mind forgets to share, but for in the moment,
It is found while listening, watching in such places, to remember once more;
For she liked it way up there above it all:
In night, where time’s words light,
Shine a little brighter each time, where?
Out to explore amongst these wooded words,
Carved like long forgotten veins of ash in charcoal trunks,
Tall and broken, from when storms tilted their lightening,
On what seemed such calm days along foreshores,
Between a distant forest and a storm curdled sea,
Such places where winds rattle falling leaves,
To whisper their tales of unchosen anonymity,
Upon reaching a surface seen before by many others,
Tethered in gravity’s denial of flight, time pauses, and
Her, unlike these falling leaves can still breathe,
Taste the salt air, walk, and dance in tales to choice, and
Finding different places, people, and falling leaves that can fly,
For her, between birth and death, everything’s alive,
Never lost, peoples, cultures, languages,
resilience to and in change in circumstance,
Her ways adapt, share, lift within society,
Her’s is a way of life, a swag, no roads, and alive.