this space

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,

and everywhere.

 

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?

 

 

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