The Practice
(published in Paradigm, Columbus, Ohio, Dec. 2009)
The practice of involved days, loose, disposable connections,
An old man’s practice.
Early August, depth of summer in the South, a clear sultry day.
Cool feet, in cool water. Limitless are the open skies
Toward the setting sun.
unbounded, I heard, and a warm setting sun.
Outward.
daydreaming in the mountains, reveries and good wishes.
Crepe myrtle in purple, white bloom
The back woods washed in warmth
and all alone I gaze.
Unsettled I say to myself, bounded by burdens.
Quiet now, solitude and unanimity sought.
A top the red dirt of the Carolina Piedmont, the air still
constant,
I listened and read the coming rain clouds.
Only here, here and now, I saw, the sky uplifted
rising on the notes of Ravel
soaring in a Spanish Rhapsody.
Nothing is wasted, all is spent.
I rise with the music and
the clouds, into the fading blue sky,
My heart immersed in the sweeping grandeur
And everything calls.
