An asphalt trail brings people here, but they never stop to listen. Some are busy chatting or bicycling through; others like shadows carry their sorrows, vanishing around the bend. But I just take my time, eyes lifted to the sky. Then, stepping off the trail, I head off into the grass and black spruce for a better view. "Don't they know,"I thought, "that this day shall never come again or give its treasures to them?"Somehow, an unwritten rule for city people keeps them on the solid ground, because they must feel the woods and fields are places haunted by vagrants and animals. But I suppose I don't mind. The moments are too precious to waste, too fleeting to ignore, so like a bee I gather the honeyed moments from the leftovers of the summer tide.In timeless mystery, the wonders are beheld. And here, the undivided love of life is like a flame, viewed through a narrow window: of the gentle sweep of leaves passing through the air, sparkling in the sun; of the furtive movements of a stream and curling pathways hidden in the grasses; of the crumpled stalks of withered parsnips, whose seeds now lie in sleep upon the ground. Still, I don't mind, because I feel I'm a part of it all, not some intruder lacking eyes to see. Time returns, and the soft-bottomed clouds drifting overhead, blurred in the haze of afternoon, can only pass away, leaving me a gift or two. And in stepping off the line, I find the wholeness more real than the edge of dreams we call our own.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Stepping off the Line
An asphalt trail brings people here, but they never stop to listen. Some are busy chatting or bicycling through; others like shadows carry their sorrows, vanishing around the bend. But I just take my time, eyes lifted to the sky. Then, stepping off the trail, I head off into the grass and black spruce for a better view. "Don't they know,"I thought, "that this day shall never come again or give its treasures to them?"Somehow, an unwritten rule for city people keeps them on the solid ground, because they must feel the woods and fields are places haunted by vagrants and animals. But I suppose I don't mind. The moments are too precious to waste, too fleeting to ignore, so like a bee I gather the honeyed moments from the leftovers of the summer tide.In timeless mystery, the wonders are beheld. And here, the undivided love of life is like a flame, viewed through a narrow window: of the gentle sweep of leaves passing through the air, sparkling in the sun; of the furtive movements of a stream and curling pathways hidden in the grasses; of the crumpled stalks of withered parsnips, whose seeds now lie in sleep upon the ground. Still, I don't mind, because I feel I'm a part of it all, not some intruder lacking eyes to see. Time returns, and the soft-bottomed clouds drifting overhead, blurred in the haze of afternoon, can only pass away, leaving me a gift or two. And in stepping off the line, I find the wholeness more real than the edge of dreams we call our own.
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I like that you like to step off the beaten path and explore. If we all followed the same path, we'd miss so much.
ReplyDeleteI like the parsnips, they look larger than life and a little alien.