When my mind becomes scattered,
when each of the thoughts I held
in my core is lost to the wind,
I seek out answers and resolutions
from the natural world.

On mornings when the grey sky
covers the sun and the forest
lives in its own green exterior,
the cold air lays upon the skin,
and you know that rain is near.

Each drop a fragment of some
larger being or existence beyond
this world and my body reacts to the cold
by reassembling the core and bringing
this being back into a whole form.

The dirt road lined with pine and poplar
exists in familiar land and on the map,
but standing here beneath the northern sky
as the cool wind brushes the lake,
I am without time or space.

In moments where I become aware
of my contact with the earth,
does it matter where I exist
physically when everything else
I am is scattered to the sea,
the sun, and the stars?

Do the stones we find on the shoreline, inspected closely before placing in a pocket for safe keeping, care that millions of years of effort have vanished?

We may live in nature, within its surroundings the forests’ cradling hands, but we must remember the cradling hands found us as they were here first, before we arrived as simple celestial beings.

Early October and the first snowfall through 30 degree temperatures, the leaves are still green and the grass is layered with a white coat. Gray rolling clouds ooze more snow as the winds toss individual flakes from rooftops and place them elsewhere in growing drifts.

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The empty field of snow and shadow,
a reflection of the desire and intent
to start the day new and leave behind the past,
build the best path into the future.

To become what the mind desires,
the field is waiting and as an extension
of you and as a plane of existence in
universe, it is limitless.

And it is yours.

And all that you allow there.

My field is filled with snow,
surrounded by trees,
beneath the cold, harsh sun,
and shadows haunt every move.

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In the first minutes of light
time stops and I cease to exist
as a physical presence and
become a flicker in the air.

Without name or boundaries
I now exist free and at home.

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The last ice melts
and beneath the morning sun
the pond is calm.

Oak and grasses lean into
the murky water and
squirrels run through dried leaves.

On my way to the trail
winding through the forest
a silent existence.

As I look down.
I see hands.

I feel nothing,
not numb,

beyond numb,
nothing at all.

Are these hands mine?

The fingers do not move
as I move through dark,

move through some space
but I do not feel I am moving

I think I am moving.
Is that enough

to define a reality
to define an existence

beyond what I am told
beyond what others see?