I’m on my way home. The clouds in my rearview mirror
keep moving over the Cascades, casting long shadows
across Three-Fingered-Jack. I’m following their course
as they break westward in a line of scattered strokes.
I believe in the rising moon, the last light growing dim
above overplowed fields, that there is knowledge
in the world’s ways, in a band of speckled starlings
chattering in the pines, in the steady flight of a barn owl.
I’m embarrassed by my lack of harmony, thinking
that I’m all by myself, while all around me Nature goes on,
effortlessly, in pure and simple rhythm.
Your prose poem presents such a sublime recognition of how very isolated each of us feels, maybe particularly at this time in history. And yet, the painterly way of your approach so very subtly achieves its turn that I find this work breathtaking in its purity, in its harkening back to Wordsworth, in its plaintive confession, in its honesty.
One of my faves of yours, Tom! Lovely to see it here. xoA
Thank you, Annis…I’m glad you like this one.
Thank you so much, Miki…..I appreciate your comments