I might be just walking down a path
about to go under a craggy old apple tree
thick with dead wood and vine choked,
yet sending smooth barked
and budded branches up to the light.
Or out to pee in the December icy night
and called up to the canopy of stars
their clock advancing minutely every night
as they wheel around our one constant, Polaris.
Or down on hands and knees
head out to breathe,
then in to blow on a smoky fire
to bring life and light back into a room
just barely habitable by 1st world standards.
And it comes over me, like a warm ocean wave
irresistibly knocking me off my feet,
this wonder at the fortune I’ve waded into,
clear purpose in being claimed by a patch of dirt,
welcomed as I do my best to live gently
into it’s greening.