Hiking Home
His thick-soled hiking shoes
tread too loudly
to celebrate time's homing invitation
to hear and see,
feel and smell resonantly hidden diversity
within Spirit's wooded ridge.
He stops to break from sacrilegious pounding
plodding echoes
reverberating through ears attuned for inside voices,
languaged listening and recreation,
amusements excluded from wild nature's cathedral voices,
receiving impassioned pauses for mutual gratitude,
co-listening,
warning of mindless human natured steps
taken to conjoin this wise-rooted ridge,
enfolding time's whisper shy adventure
into natural placing
pacing space.
A darker cloud asks
"What did you and your kids eat today?"
Well, let's see,
organic honey on pita bread...
"How do you know it was organic?"
It said so right on the glass,
not plastic,
bottle.
"How do they know if the honey is organic or not?
Do they interview or breathalyze each bee returning home?
Do they ask each bee
each time
who this bee has been with?
In that intimate being kinda way,
playing with whose pollen, exactly?
Did the bee stay within her orthodox organic certified playground,
or did she wander off the farm
and free range right into your toxic neighbor's chemically condomed hydrangea,
or maybe the always too enticing hibiscus,
flaunting her ample skanky wares?"
Well, I don't know,
I just took the bottles' word.
I wouldn't begin to know how to respond to your issues,
about breathalyzing slutty bees
addicted to poison.
"OK, so what else did you feed on today?"
Well, I showed my kids I love them.
I used my please and thank yous
and you're welcome,
and namaste.
I wished them peace before their baths
and before turning out the light
at night
so they could see stars
and moon slivering through dark.
The neighbors provided birdsong,
especially those mourning doves
calling out their resonate alto fractal coo,
their rhythm and courtship bun-dance.
I fed them massaging back rubs
and hugs
and shoulder squeezes,
gentle taps on knees and elbows.
I stroked their drifting drowsy heads
from frontal lobes toward brain stem.
My fingers rubbed between each totem
in their forceful flowing chi-spines,
root toward crown
and back again.
I fed them sad and silly songs
and mindful ho-ke-po-ke.
We fed each other love stories
of romance,
sadness and despair,
fear and anger,
passion and grace;
absorbent love-life stories,
well told and worn
from dawn's redress
through dark's red-blooded thumping night.
We are what we absorb,
both before our days
and after all.
His thinner-souled shoes
retread more softly
anticipating home's warm invitation.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
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