As someone who has spent his life with words,
I find it somewhat disconcerting
to write so little anymore.
Am I becoming dull in later years?
Have I run out of things to say?
Do I no longer care?
Or is it that I want to see, at last,
things are they are instead of thinking,
writing, words about them?
I stood this evening in the twilight
and sang my prayer songs to the six directions.
Black Butte in the east was just itself.
Mt. Eddy to the west simply stood against the sky.
To the north the pines were still
but I saw a Spotted Towhee hurry to his nest
amidst the manzanita, and earlier I saw
the first swallow of the spring
dart across the sky.
The cabin to the south I saw
without thinking that I lived there.
The stars above me framed my little life
and wrapped me in their quiet Mystery.
I stood on the earth with shadows all about me
and stopped, for just a moment,
all my thinking.
I came inside and wrote these words, but
they’re just words, and unless I see
the Thing Itself, they are a waste of time.
If I must write, let my words be arrows
piercing through the fabric of my worn-out thoughts
and letting light, and perhaps beauty,
shine through the holes, like stars, from places yet unseen
into a world yet to be discovered.