I’m always making maps
And drawing up diagrams
Of the changes I will make.
If I can see a schematic, I think,
I’ll be able to follow through.
I will make habits that will change me,
Get me into shape.
Try as I might, none of the plans
Look quite right, or have the best words
To address my situation.
So I take two steps forward and one step back.
And before I get discouraged
I remember that I’m not marching but dancing,
And that, as a matter fact, these steps
That are the same steps I’ve taken a million times before
Have never brought me to exactly the same place.
Long ago and far away
When a tree was my friend
And the wind my playmate
I followed frivolity hither and yon
And never once wondered how long I’d be young.
Over the rivers and cities and moors,
Up the down staircase,
Across bare wooden floors,
I carried my babies and sang them to soothe,
I counted red apples, made rhymes, Stories too.
But none were as fine as the ones that weren’t mine
But belonged to the sea, the skies and to time.
Now I am silent as I sit in the shade, at one with the music being unmade
Thunder, more felt than heard,
crickets and distant bells,
The pipes in the sound garden bump shoulders and let their songs go out into the world.
All is well. All is well. All is well is all they tell.
They were handed down from my father’s father
and worn everyday
and slept in for fear of them being stolen in the night.
Actually, there was nothing to hand down except the thought
of a boot.
Crunching gravel and snow in winter and in spring
and tromping through mud in summer,
or slipping over fallen red, orange and yellow leaves in the
month before Halloween.
Walking on, ’round the circut of houses, I thought, “Its not far now,
it’s not far from here.”
I could see the green siding of the house from down the street, but no matter
how close I got, it was still not the right time/space zone
to call it home. The house was always under construction.
So I must trust in the wind,
the unpredictible wind.