Wild

Wild

by | Poetry

Wild is anything that’s not at home in something else’s place… –Wendell Berry, from A Timbered Choir Today, this wind my home Today, this lucid sky Today, I own nothing– am owed nothing. Today only throatsong, eyesong, brimming wind,...

Until that day…

by | Poetry

When I die, I want to be this log– a nursery for green and growing things. Small trees spring from my body– shy, exuberant, leaping towards sunshine. This must be how the Earth feels about people, grasses, whales– all us green and growing things...

When you come to the end of the path

by | Poetry

When you come to the end of the path it isn’t obvious. There are openings under the trees where small streams have carved what looks like a way forward. The forest floor is golden with fallen fir needles and at first you think Ah yes! Here’s a trail or at...