Here is the feather
But already I have forgotten
The time and the place
That it entered my life
I do remember that I thought it to be
A native American Indian tradition
To bring security and joy
Into the wigwams and the teepees
I have an idea
That it could have been a monastery
A retreat to spirituality
Where events such as this could occur
And now my invaluable
If somewhat vulnerable breath
Blows it across the table
Requiring a moment of recovery
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It is a quiet town
For a bright orange
’67 Transporter
Is everything as it really is
Is this the truth that they really represented
It is a slow-driver Sunday
For a gloss black
2010 Transporter
That the presence should wait for me
On the tarmacadam roads of awareness
Have Laura’s green leaves decorated the BA
And could they do the same
For my next year’s transporter
It is a black coffee rest place
For an Italian jacket and a Japanese pencil
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One footstep too many
One raindrop for the few
One beech nut tree story
The fell and the root reordered
One old school house standing
One age of time to view
One car driven too quickly
The pace of life in residue
One branch softly swaying
One sunspot to include
One patched up blue sky
The hope is to preview
A seat looking out
Away across the meadow
A treat for sincere sore eyes
After a walk, a path to follow
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It wasn’t Rocco
Who complained
About being hit by the wheelbarrow
No, it was someone’s mother
Who asked why
Why would anyone do such a thing
But there and then
With an adult’s intrusion
Rocco’s game was over
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I don’t honestly know
What my life is about
Not at least, as in the words
Of Story of My heart
By Richard Jefferies
I do (hopefully honestly) know
That to among nature
With a breeze to my back
Is about a good a thing
As one might peacefully imagine
Several layers of green leaves
Before and beneath the blue sky
Stock still grove stones
Telling the forever stories
Of families and societies
There is even room here
For thorns and nettles
For rough cut grass
And overgrown hedges
To keep life contained
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