Dusty trouser legs and well-trod boot soles
make their way beneath me while I walk
twixt distant-gazing cows and a cricket-filled
live oak forest in the sort of dawn that only comes
after a long night of quiet walking.
Homes. You’d think that they’d be easy to find
and keep and laugh in with warm light spilling out
over your shoulders when you throw open the door
to welcome a guest after their long night of walking
to end their journey with a bed-haven and hot-meal spirit.
It’s not. Human beings are blessings.
Self-respect is a blessing. Parents, pets, kids, attractive
love, successful communications, trees to climb and earth
to plant seeds in…
All these things are so good there’s nothing we can do to cook them up
from imagination and elbow grease and raw materials - they’re miracles.
We don’t “deserve” them. We’re anti-damned blessed
when we get them, just some by-the-way incidentals
while we wander with open eyes, open ears, open hearts.
As open to the light as our darndest can do.
Dusty trouser legs and well-trod boot soles
make their way beneath me while I walk
twixt distant-gazing cows and a cricket-filled
live oak forest in the sort of dawn that only comes
after a long night of quiet walking.
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 6:42 PM UTC
Dusty trouser legs and well-trod boot soles
make their way beneath me while I walk
twixt distant-gazing cows and a cricket-filled
live oak forest in the sort of dawn that only comes
after a long night of quiet walking.
Homes. You’d think that they’d be easy to find
and keep and laugh in with warm light spilling out
over your shoulders when you throw open the door
to welcome a guest after their long night of walking
to end their journey with a bed-haven and hot-meal spirit.
It’s not. Human beings are blessings.
Self-respect is a blessing. Parents, pets, kids, attractive
love, successful communications, trees to climb and earth
to plant seeds in…
All these things are so good there’s nothing we can do to cook them up
from imagination and elbow grease and raw materials - they’re miracles.
We don’t “deserve” them. We’re anti-damned blessed
when we get them, just some by-the-way incidentals
while we wander with open eyes, open ears, open hearts.
As open to the light as our darndest can do.
Dusty trouser legs and well-trod boot soles
make their way beneath me while I walk
twixt distant-gazing cows and a cricket-filled
live oak forest in the sort of dawn that only comes
after a long night of quiet walking.
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