terra incognita

So much empty space
with no centre,
no start
each step might take
you closer to a point
or away from your
destination. 

Each post you plant
tethers you, 
each tack placed in this
map
only serves to show
its largeness. 

Its all distraction-
a leaf,
that sky,
some sounds,
your thoughts,
and a feeling that
each glimmer is there
for you alone. 

To look directly at
one specific thing
is impossible
you will need to
capture release 
then capture again
to keep your attention
fixed. 

Inadequate luggage
carries meaning 
no farther 
than the next step
then it is unpacked and
repacked before moving 
on somehow fuller,
wider, heavier. 

Bread crumbs trail from
carry ons,
curious birds follow
chirping who are you?
and where are you heading?
but staying just
distant enough to escape
the clutch and scrutiny. 

I sometimes feel
like the hunter 
in a forest that
does not regard me
as a threat
in fact
it does not
regard me at all. 

But lifting that rock, 
even a centimetre 
from the ground will 
result in resistance, 
small green living creatures
will tug and try 
to bring that rock 
back to ground.

Insignificant things 
have their own gravity 
and to not consider
their animus
is foolish
and greedy. 

Just because
we can see each 
starry pin point
in the night sky
we have no right
to reach out
and touch
them. 

hopewell

Go to the rock. 

Inch up to it,
rise with it. 
rub and roil at 
it’s base. 

Some know where
to stand, 
where to pose,
when to step back. 

Most don’t. 

I smile at each 
bewildered gasp
as person
after person loses
footing in the glutenous
mud. 

If they could
they would
write a name
into its face. 

Use their elements. 

Turn corners into curves. 

Create calligraphic timestamps 
only legible
to the watchful. 

6 hours from now
this could be underwater. 

Or, may be floating 
12 feet up. 

That squish and squeak
from the red earth
found only on this
coastline, 
would be forgotten. 

It must be

a memory adrift. 

Ground, then foam, 
now sea floor. 

When it’s raw face
returns ashore
even seaweed
will be 
worn differently. 

What was clung to 
is now
salt washed and rinsed. 

Currents inhale and
exhale change. 

Every ebb and flow
primordial. 

It’s history
has made these precarious 
stacks. 

Gorgeous,
dangerous,
and in need of protection. 

Even the peregrine hestitate
before landing. 

Evidence of breakage-
bare wedges of 
impossible gravity
seem to float defying physics
between
precipices. 

And except for single spindles
of white pine along 
it’s scalp and spine
nothing else dares
to rise. 

This cycle of 
getting to ground,
seeing the past,
settling at bottom
does not feel normal. 

Thoughts- 
good, bad, 
cold, stormy, 
light, dark 
have molded 
me too.

A reminder that some things,
elemental things,
can return 
and rend us down
until you fall
into them. 

And your moon,
or whatever small body
of influence that
orbits you,

knows your only 
choice will be
acceptance.