I push the wheelbarrow filled with cornstalks up the grade to the compost pile, breathing hard, the mud of the garden a burden around the soles of my boots.
I slog through the rest of the day, grateful for the weight of work outdoors, but wondering why I am more tired in the midst of the doing.
At the office with my mouse in hand chasing pixels across the screen, my body aches in other ways. The fatigue is less so I think, different I know. And I am responsible.
I have faithfully watered the plant beside the desk, but its leaves form a thick pile on the floor. A bit of outside brought inside to comfort and now distress me.
Though I know that I too must give in to that which pushes me back into the ground.
For it seems that my life is solely about the business of making a decent compost.
Originally posted here October 2005
the father calls them,
the times when he and his son are on the water,
the rhythm of his hands,
the long line breathing out over the river,
alighting on the surface just so
exactly as it should be,
and the boy
in wide-eyed wonder
catching so much more than fish.
Originally posted here June 2000.
I am learning not to talk so much, need for explanation
I get tongue-tied when I think of you
West of Eden, East of where I wanna be
Say what I mean what I say
I can think back and feel bad
Bad things don’t happen to good people they just happen
An audio reflection recorded March 30, 1997 after watching “The English Patient.”
A 2016 PeaceGrooves Production
All Rights Reserved
but i get to know the swimscape really well
a dizzy exploration
but the vortex does ripple out
in my own spinning orb
yet the self waves touch others
(perhaps the “progress” of this watery merry go round is only bound by my perception)