Living in the Moment

I went to the arboretum the other day, took pictures, and wrote this poem.



As a child, I would hide away
Within the venerable civilization of trees
There was an invisible line at the edge of our property
Once crossed, all yelling and fighting would cease

I would step into
The flute-like call of a soulful owl
The rise of loquacious locusts
Like steam after a summer rain
And then their sinking hush as I drew near
The creek spilling through pine roots
Weaving around fallen trees
Creating swirling stages of leaves dancing
Ceremoniously, at the end of their day
Like the wind-up music box ballerina
That played Lara’s Theme
The pine needles, bark, and cones that scented my bare feet
Wafting woodland perfume
Infusing a musty certitude

I used to wonder
About never going home
About living on dew berries and Honey Locust nuts
Like the people who lived here before
About pine bark boats
With a leaf for a sail
Where would it end up?
Drifting

Making birds, nests, and eggs
From the creek bed’s clay
I lived in the moment
Though, it eventually dried and crumbled
And I cried
Now, I keep returning to the forest
Searching for that world
Where I lived in the moment
But my head won’t be silent
Yelling and fighting, though I live alone