Words often come to me when I hike. So do creative ideas and photos and …
The words often come in lyrical verse. Sometimes as fragments, notes to work out later. Sometimes as formed poems I jot down and then try to leave alone, letting the flow of that moment stand as the specialness I felt when it came.
Here is another short poem for the #showyourwork file, from the trail.
A Seat
A tree stump stripped yellow and weathered gray
stands in the textured wild, a loose tooth uneasy
in its roots among its sisters and ancestors already
fallen, a notch cut at the peak of what’s left, a seat
for the conscious left clear.
It’s trail poetry, I say, and that’s akin to trail yoga for me. It’s where I connect with my best Self through connecting with nature. Like in Echoes of Oms.
But poems come to me in other places, too. Like the mechanic shop’s waiting area and on the street, and in the backyard playing catch with Dad.
