Smoke on Hidden Lake. Eagle Cap Wilderness. . .
On the road in the American Northwest.
I'm too poor in this world, and yet not
poor enough . . . after Rilke
I'm too poor in this world, and yet not poor enough
just to stand before you like a Buddha,
or naked, like a new-born babe;
I'm too clever in this world, and yet not clever enough,
just to vanish before your eyes
like a leaf, or blade of new spring grass.
I want my world to be shaped by meaning, by sense,
not by greed, or envy, or corporate gold.
I'm sick of war, of waste, of conflict,
of presidents who lie, and governments
who slaughter in my name and call it peace.
I want to walk with those who speak
a wholly different language;
I want to be with those who ask questions, real
questions, and who listen with a certain selfless fierceness
regardless of where the answers lead.
I would like to sing.
And I want my song to resonate with your whole being
and not just some narrow backwater of your soul.
I would like to pray, I would like to
pray that my song comes alive with energy,
like the sound of rushing water,
like the ecstatic counterpoint of ravens
after all the hunters have gone home,
like a bell ringing out on all its sides from a misty hill,
like the sound of falling snow beneath
the celestial dome that gives us both refuge
in this most mysterious, uncharted wildness of all.
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Eagle Cap Wilderness