Meander

Sometimes, the aftermath of a move is more disruptive than the move itself! All is well … and … there are many small adjustments to make before I settle back in to a daily routine.

I anticipate my usual daily postings to resume tomorrow evening … if … all goes according to plan.

Meanwhile … enjoy my Meandering poem that I wrote a few days after I moved to New Mexico:

Strolling down the gravel road
I pause at the crossroad.
Old habits die hard
and I look … left … right
even though I would have, could have, heard
any tires coming from a long way away
even footsteps would clamor.

But there is only silence
and I stroll
across onto
the dirt track that
maybe was … would be … will be
a road.
It meanders,
a stream
of soft soil and small stones
of fresh elk tracks and spoor
of faded tire tracks and
loping paw prints – a wanderer
chasing who knows what dreams.
I follow them all.

Pausing … listening … only silence.
Silence and the shush
of my blood.
Silence and the whoosh
of my breath.
Silence and the whisper
of the soft breeze in the pines.

I follow
the meander
observing the unfamiliar
allowing it to unveil
in its own time.

Life is all around me
shifting toward its winter sleep,
for such a dry land
it is also rich in life,
trees and plants
not simply hanging on,
they flourish
in their own way,
in their own time.

The meander splits
to the east
to the south
and I turn back,
leaving more exploration
for another day.
In the west
the sun
sinks in her glory
behind a tree-laden hill
and the sky is on fire
as she departs,
as I depart this stream
of soft soil and small stones.

Again, I look … right … left
a habit that can bring out a smile.
Unnecessary, familiar, a remnant
of a time and place I’m leaving behind.
I meander, across the country,
across my life,
across a lonely gravel road.

Emma MacKenzie
11/17/2018

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