My Meditative Place
I was melting on this Missouri day, but I knew where to go
We live on thirty-three acres of woods, and in the center is a brook.
My nephew had created thirty-three railroad tie steps for me
Which lead down a steep hill surrounded by trees on both sides.
The dogs follow happily, understanding where we are going.
The brook is in the middle of a forest where I often startle deer.
To my right is a huge tree which fell possibly twenty years ago
The giant roots point toward us; it is something fine to sit on.
Mushrooms grow out of it, with purple violets at her feet.
I always bring a little container to collect rocks; for the brook is magical.
I stick my bare feet in, delighting at the coolness of her water.
She is making gurgling noises, moving downhill west to east.
Two dogs have run off. They are yipping excitedly. One dog stays.
Sitting calmly, both of us, breathing the best air, listening to bird speak.
One dog always stays with me when we enter the woods.
They take turns. I begin investigating the rocks. Little minnows are swimming.
There are spider webs. A large shadow overhead. I look up. Hawk.
I begin to not only cool down but calm down. This is my meditative place.
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