The road into the distant sky
seems untouchable, the journey seems impossible,
but this is the start, this is only the beginning,
if I choose to walk.

I return to that road whenever
direction is needed
whenever I need a reminder of the
path at my feet that I choose to forget.

How to bring ourselves to take the first step,
how to find the courage to follow the path?

Have I taken enough wrong turns,
followed enough roads to dead-ends,
spent enough time screaming into the fields,
that this is the path I am finally ready for?

Holding up the sky as

morning settles into the fields.

We pass beneath the ancient canopy

and quietly fall into its shadows.

I imagine one his photographs might look like this:

 

 

I imagine one his photographs might look like this:

 

 

Cast from expectations of treeless horizons
and concrete enforced cities,

we landed here within the forest
which quickly enveloped us.

Towering pines scatter the August afternoon
and we run through fallen needles and shadows.

At the end of the day we rest in the native grases
and watch butterfly wings open and close.

Regardless of what the trail is made of,
it connects us to the earth,
guides us through the forest,
allows us to be within.

In the stationary silence
I seek answers that already
lie at me feet.

I look for skies that already
fill my vision.

And I seek truth to my purpose
that has played out for hundreds of years.

What hands move the pieces in this universe?
What hands guide the universes along the surface
of the vast oceans and between each grain of sand?