I took the bus up to the mountains
in the north, during November
when it would be cold
but I was greeted by only a slight chill
and a bright sun.
On the way there
I saw fields of rice and corn
and what looked like sugar,
but the bus moved so fast.
The sky was a bright blue,
the clouds hovered, blissfully unaware
of all that lay below it.
On this trip, I did not see the sea.
I saw rivers, though,
and a fisherman casting his line
into the air.
Up in the mountains, I gathered
all that I could learn from trees,
and flowers, and fallen leaves.
I heard the earth groan
from the weight of the houses built there
and the pavement that winds
like snakes to and fro, up and down,
Did I ever tell you that I learn from the trees
the way I learn from the ocean?
How in their stillness I have learned
what it means to truly stand?
The way the waves crashing against the surf
taught me that I should never stay the same.
They are kind teachers.
They are patient and generous with their wisdom.
All this space?
What happens to it when it is done with us?