august 2023

When you think there is no place that can hold you any longer

Go to Dickson Falls;

where tree frond fingers steeple far above your upturned face

and a beam of sunlight stretches across infinite space to 

tousle the spiky, dew limned hair of a sapling spruce.

Cool mist, fir scented, conjured by the waterfall, 

moistens your lips and lungs

draws forth the shehechianu: thank God I am here.

And when you feel there is no place for your words 

to settle into seed

Walk onward to Point Wolfe;

across a cloistered, covered red wooden bridge

containing a single framed opening, overflowing with cool wind, facing south,

where the Point Wolfe River rushes into the Chigneto Bay.

One hundred years ago, massive bodies of trees flowed out in an endless funeral procession, St John bound.

But today, my friend, you will see only the water, 

flowing like rows of monks

with smooth mindful steps, eternal tidal leavetaking,

from every corner and wooded height into the estuary,

In just a few hours, they march miles out into the distance, 

leaving behind the briny, muddy flats, 

boulders like the buried heads of giants, 

covered with fine wisps of algae hair.

And in a few hours more, the lapping procession of monks returns, 

The sea returns.

When you think there is no place that can hold you any longer

And nowhere for your words to settle and into seed

Come to Point Wolfe for a day;

Sit and track the solemn march of the tide

Let yourself sink gently into the rich mud, like

A stone, worn smooth, into an offering.