full tank of gas
open minds
rain behind us to the west
leaving the shadows
this morning’s yin
for
the sun
the yang on the
eastern side of these mountains
our separate wakes
trails of phosphorescent fears
fallow behind us
what’s the point
it’s these
waves that yet wash on our
pebbled shores
still lapping
for five long decades
finally ‘getting it’
that
wrong turns
can be right
when we don’t strive
for direction
self seeing self being seen
as a skeptic
can be a good thing
playing with words
looking for double meanings as
if a conversation
were a poem
or a debate
you know
you know
you know
i have stopped saying that
i say
a habit
observed, extracted and altered
self reorganized
like Feldenkrais practice for awareness
up a random road arriving in a forest i see
a trout lily
rare orange and graceful
A cut-throat lily
you say you see,
more like a rainbow
i hear a bird i heard
in my yard
No
It’s not the same individual
you laugh
on the way to discover the whisper of the
tiniest of seasonal streams
hiking down hill
barely bush-whacking
leaving
vibrant bright dry meadows
for
patches of cool shady yellow-green young trees
recalling childhood
a past
not often pleasant
you show me how to make markers for this trail
turtles
of sticks and stones
a Boy Scout trick
so we can find our way
back
you at the wheel
the Subaru – guided by stars
winding down the forest road and
up another
having traded an expected outcome
for observation
a high peak is easily found
we have a ledge
to perch
comfortable
on car blankets
no real precipice to fear
there is solid
although steep
ground beneath us
we will not die this way
today
here
at journey’s height
we view the opposite ridge
to the south
covered in clouds
a future destination
an unknown country
far to the west
the sun has pulled the ocean up into the sky
white puffs
cool winds push
weight of the water
scoops of the sea
clouds roll on over
to the far distance of the Yakima Valley
blue and fine in the farthest reaches of our vision
waves of fresh marine air
touch us as the wetness
in the currents of air rush by
on their way
to water the crops
the life cycle of this world
you remind me of a Pascal quote
the self is a median between
nothingness and everything
balanced on a boundary
on our rock edge
on a line
of radical acceptance
the earth
the sun
the cosmos
the sound of our voices
the audacious flight of tiny birds
at this attitude
our vista
our vision
expands to infinity ever outwards
full with each inhalation
and
as we exhale contracts towards
the asymptotes of self
by evening’s return
yin and yang reverse
sun at opposite horizon
still raining on the west side
of the mountains
you talk of history
recalling how any invading force
even in victory
cannot win
they are
simply overwhelmed by local culture
Maybe you’re like Rome,
you laugh,
and maybe I’m the vandals –
or is it the other
way
around
Elisabeth Bee 