I pace this emerald reward as if it must end. But what of life? It seems to be the ultimate gift and that which the river fills, the air breathes, man sees, and the water feeds… And isn’t life, that which sustains without question, without the need to know, without distinctions, exclusive of me altogether?
My curiosity turns toward the root, yet rots and cracks if I but spurn my kinship, deny my promise to another, to my kind, to Love, that which breathes like the wind and sun inside of all living things, that which is held inside the whole of life.
This world, this earth, with it’s breathing art, is set to greet me daily if I would but open my eyes to witness her and feel the one thing I’ve truly ever known, which is still belief since we become the thing we hunt, no less and no more than the dog, the lion, the deer, the bear and this freely given life. Then, and only then, might I see myself dying, fading for what I've lived instead of for what I’ve believed. New breath, old patience, youth’s goodness and human love, the communal tides of flesh and bone reaching out to another like the freshness of life’s green cover.
It speaks to me if I but listen. It may ooze from me like sap or surge from me like storms, yet, another way, the one that waits on me to live, is to allow it to move through me at a pace, like the tempo found nestled in it’s symphony, animal, the one that moves within me, within the shadowy wits of my human kind.
The things that are given freely; the earth, life, love, I’ve smothered with my covetous prayers, wasted with a tenure that circled providence as if it were inadequate with the earth used as a staging ground to stamp my failure!
The unwearied way, like the caress of goodness in my spirit or the jarring truth of the most elusive, is the source of all life, the springboard, not just for man’s days, but for his cousins; the wolf, the dog, the tree, the ground, the river and the mountain. These, more than my kind's dying instincts, should I love the most, cherish as the kiss from life’s original Love.
So be it.
© 2011 by mark prime
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