Thursday, January 3, 2019

Not for Naught



Waft of myrtle.
Seventy percent chance of showers tomorrow.
The green is a drunk dusty gradient seeking to swallow the earth.
The river is tired of summer. In the evening I can hear her sigh.

It feels like skiing downhill these days.
Food teases my taste buds once more.
Stridency has gone off to hibernate.

Perspective comes like a tiny hill won in a fierce battle,
and is lost just as often.
Rest loosens the joints of arthritic passivity.
Many times it feels anything other than restful.
Anger has simmered for so long in my bowels
that I fear for them.
Age, after all, is unforgiving.
It never lets go of a grudge.

If the universe is nothing but matter,
then all of this is for naught.
But I know better.
I touch the truth of it in my meditations.
That’s my evidence. That’s my testimony.
The bullies of this culture will never chase that out of me.



~~*~~
Rogue River, southwest Oregon

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