Dear God, where did all the questions go.
Was eight hundred miles, two months outside, enough.
Couldn’t be. I still feel small. Proud. I argue. Too loud.
Some part of me must still be in darkness.
I thought enlightenment was different than this.
I need the confidence of my own conclusions.
I need to stop saying I’m sorry so much.
When I’m not.
I have been on the mountaintop.
And you suffer there. I tore my hair.
Broke shoe laces and cracked my own walking stick
against my own temple intentionally. God is not human.
Human value systems do not apply to God.
This is joy wrought from suffering. The pie in the sky.
Nothing to it. I took a bite out of life. Could barely chew it.
I climbed a mountain and broke a crown.
I glimpsed enlightenment.
And turned around.
All life resembles rhetorical answers to questions about existence.
There are no truer conclusions than what is spoken by the passive voices of trees.
Secrets in endless probing roots which explode under and out where trunk meets ground.
A flattish line of quartz and topsoil like choppy water reflecting light in gleams and flashes, whole oceans of deep furrows glimmering like the side of a fish.
But dirt absorbs the light. Holds on to it. Gives back a dull color or two as thanks.
And keeps the rest.
But water is fast-changing, murky flows grow south and clear and confess awkward truth like ignorant youth.
So soil stays broken. Smaller fragments of a former self.
All parts of it translated to nutrient and sediment.
Ready to give us up all the tree secrets.
Is the poetry to be so simple?
One broken up line of broken cracked prose to impersonate poetry.
Bring up pretty bright color alongside some sad dark one. Poem.
Unexpected detail, a twist, two twists, spaced middle and end. Poem.
A difficult day to explain. A story hard as a rock to tell. Confess.
Confess it all.
Butterfly found dead in the grass.
Hollowed out in body, left connected in the wings, painted still faded color.
Witness. Read a larger work. Not a poem. Every poem. Metapoem.
All art is killed and devoured just being recorded. Drawn.
Passing through a sore hand, the story a dead insect tells Man.
The paintings on the walls of the animals who were dinner.
The clouds. Green ground. And red. Deep red. Blood. Metapoem.
Recording of the first ever muse: guilt.
Poetry to redefine poetry.
The long winded verse of words written into steps on a trail.
Meticulous. Repetitive. Climbing to a climax. To witness life,
poetically, but from sharp, vital perspective. Call it prose.
Falling as sudden as it rose into a deep trough marked resolution.
Every sight and destination along the way. Prose.
The sun setting. Cold nights full with falling stars
and the garbled singing voices of owls. Prose.
Again, as soon as the sun rose, up to clouds and rain and more walking too.
The sole pursuit under every tortured step. Prose.
Please. Do not forget the leaps once taken to cross the hurdle.
The deep creek. The fallen tree. The inherent poetry off blind leaps of faith.
And the daily. The progress. Forward movement climbing and dropping.
The endless purposeful footsteps of prose.
Journeys taken before adventure had a name.
The art we created, carried,
the stories and poems we wrote,
before such words had ever been written.