The New England Epic
The postcard took a month to get here (Maine)
After reading it carefully I decided that was something
I would never do;
Do not have the intellectual curiosity I’m supposed to
I need or want
To go out past my woodpiles
Or is it the old stonewalls?
These... historic structures
Mingle with the fallen leaves,
Cracked branches and the
View from there of the pond.
A duck quacking.
The cloud covers the sun
Moving air animates the dry leaves.
Moment I step inside the
Hot fireplace fire’s heat is
Making a whole home
Warm and toasty forbidding
The notion that ‘two more weeks
In the jungle’ after
‘Five weeks in the mountains’
So I take my boots off
Put another log on
And wander in the very lost
I am here;
With the ‘very simplest’ that I suppose I
Could find anywhere;
Even in Peru
But would never go there.
I just wanted my spirit self
To get up off it’s ass and
Have to ask around if anyone is
Foolish enough to disturb (destroy?)
A perfectly good sense of the
Whole God damn universe by
Going to Peru.
It’s not gonna happen.
Not with the fresh bite of ice cold air,
The rake of that wind ripping my
No... the scarf stops it. Yes:
There on my chest... the scarf stops it.
That is not what happens in Peru.
No and just as countless as the dead leaves
Blowing by my eyes to show me that it
Is impossible to not be... too... blown;
As a leaf
Living here with the very simplest.