Sick of this world, I take a morning walk up a nearby mountain trail I’ve long neglected.
The path is rough with dirt and grass, rubbled by rough stones like uncut gems.
Abandoned sneakers crown a pile of drying palm fronds, as though they’ve been parted from their legs much as the palm fronds have been severed from their trees.
on either side,
of purple blooms with saffron tongues
and multi-colored clover.
The white bands of butterflies striped like zebras announce their presence in the shade,
and even the litter is fallen flowers.
In the path lies the circular mounded artistry of ants that signals that new and private world they’ve cleared out for themselves below.
Too soon, and long before I would have turned to renegotiate a path now sloped downwards, a closed gate either forgotten or new since I last passed this way so many years before,
turns me homewards,
past the abandoned shoes
abd fallen trees
turning into soil.
past the orange blooms of a tabachine tree,
past stone walls
and more contained beauty.
The runoff from last night’s rain shoots from the drain that pierces a high stone wall.
Mushrooms grow on a woodpile
beneath the bright yellow of a neighbor’s tabachine,
and a slit-open pomegranate from my own tree forms a happy face, welcoming me home
as my across-the-street neighbor’s new small dog, unaccustomed to me,
barks out her protest of this interloper who has been newly saved by the reality of the wild beauty of our world
that was here before we came, has been here all along,
and will remain after we leave. This is the more constant truth of the world, and I return home to create a reminder of it.
Click on first photo to enlarge all photos. The poem it illustrates has been edited in this version. To see poem in its entirety, go HERE.