Heart of the Hunter
There is a distance now in the landscape
Of the wandering heart through seasons
That weathered each coming and going,
And I have come to know it well, crossing
Alone now, neither departure nor arrival,
Approaching something farther than field
And wood, toward where only the wind
Will furrow the low hills, the dark trees
Leaning into a dusky, receding pale light,
The horizon that keeps slipping away.
I carry this distance with me on my boots -
Dust, mud of creek-clay, thorns and burrs,
Vines wet with rain or curled with frost,
The seeds of wheat or weeds, or of snow -
Walking through all that each season
Gives and takes, leaves and leaves behind.
This distance that is closer now than it was,
And through it the hunter quietly comes,
Following signs of bent grass, broken twigs,
The path of those who passed this way.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 806 times
Written on 2011-07-04 at 17:58
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