While counting smooth pebbles
and sorting my affairs
a spider strolls across the ledger.
My new office lies streamside-
beneath sprawling, weathered oaks.
Hold all calls, no visitors, please.
Thinking of you, today, all of you;
the Cold Mountain poets
-who know their way back to the world but instead
choose the loneliness of trees.
The bird watchers and stream listeners,
connoisseurs of dragonfly flight
and falling blossoms.
To all those who carry the Burden,
who feel uncomfortably hot with the windows closed
even when it’s cold outside
-who find their cure in the smell of dark earth and moss.
I hope you find it.
I’ll be out looking, again, today
as soon as the other world lets me be.