An undiscovered trailhead we sift
abutted by wheat or field grassses disguised
by space a happy castle in the far
or so I imagine in Quixotic fashion
(La Mancha was a dump you know).
Oh glorious winding path
can't see 'round the Next
ez to suspend disbelief
believe it goes forever
the mind's love for infinity
glimpsed in this rare
privacy with a long view.
I reach for Heat Moon,
while Proustian songs
go off in my head:
"And so I wrote this down for Matthew...
And hey it's good to be back home again."
Work days I exit the house
startled by beauty
by brill sun on black 'sphalt
the grass multi-hued,
light-green where sun sits
By Sunday I'm suspectible to beauty,
hungry for words I can't write
like the itch you can't scratch,
like the irreplaceable feel
of another's hand on your skin.
I miss her now
up here on this little house prairie
or Bald's Knob
for in the books there's always a wife
a partner to save from the Injuns
as Heat Moon sings in the background:
"What truer children of Kansas
than those taken aloft by the South Wind?"
Afterwards the book room sits like the sacred room
in some ancient Newgrange where
the equinox lights up
here promptly at 7
alit by west-by-northwest windows.