To the pond, evening

Mindful of the world’s dangers
and sorrows I walk.
I could go straight down to the pond
but I take the long way through the woods,
the yellow trees, apostles of the centuries,
holding their arms out over me,
the little brook sewing its way through them.
My path is narrow, made by walking it
over and over, in all kinds of weather.

The water in the pond is at peace,
and will find its way to the sea.
A few geese rest there, stopping by.
They too will find their place.
The yellowing grasses lie down,
folding their million fingers on their chests.
They will sleep for now but they will return.
My breath, a thread that has gone in and out of me
—how many times?— goes in and out.
It is not mine alone.

The winterbent pine by the pond
raises its arms in benediction.
The rising moon, so steadfast, holds her thoughts to herself
watching me make my way back up the field,
like all of us, wandering home.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
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