Boone moved along the old river
every year as seasons changed,
living in tenter made from kills
before the snows came - the trees slept.
feeling aged, he thought to stay tucked
in to winter camp to wait for
the spirit guide to lead him Home,
but the call of the rapids rush
ripping through icy fields down stream
moved him to treck south toward spring.
on tenterhooks, I listen for
change of natural movement;
never near a river or stream,
water does not carry the call,
but a well, rooted in my soul,
springs eternal the highest hope
that the next turn shows me the road.
over time, as concrete sprawled,
nature’s path was crossed.
many lost the rhythm that is natural
to the cycles that Earth provides,
instead, relying on the motherboard
to inform time’s movement.
static and data interrupt
natural rhythms which are
fundamentally the core of
how I see myself living.
I want to catch the flow of life
that Mother gives us when we
first pull on her for nourishment.
we are gullet full and mindless of
the disconnect of compassed sounds
intuitively necessary in order to hear
the rush and patterns of landmarks
that jigsaw back and forth across
wire-less, natural landscapes
of returning, cycled, spirit paths.
Boone sits constant in memory,
found in a tattered faded book
under a big sky on the shelf.
the chord that he struck guides me,
and though I don’t sleep directly
under the stars that purpose shine,
they pull me nonetheless, for time
is best served measuring life
distanced from inorganic connection.
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