Hermit Thrush says I should get up with the sun
There are teachers you just don’t argue with
Wandering down to the shore, the lake is gone.
There’s that arrogance.
If I can’t see it, it must not exist
Shrouded in mist.
A mist as ephemeral as trust
Thick as willful ignorance.
Two hours I sit
Waiting for the sun and wind to reveal the far shore
The gentle breeze from the waving hands of children looking for home
The undying light of that home calling them back.
The patient, lapping waves of grief and truth.
The trees on the far shore have seen it all
Yet another mist falls from their shoulders
If I just closed my eyes again, they’d be gone
Imagine any shore I wanted
Just not this one
A perfect weave of timeless wisdom
Eyes open
The thrush sings again
