TO THE WHITE SALMON RIVER, MARCH 3, 2013

.

On my way to the White Salmon this morning I hear tinkling bells.
Rain water seeping through a hillside falling on rocks below.
One little pine among a stand of fir trees waving in a breeze
I cannot feel.
Now I hear a voice I don’t know at first
is my own.

“God is here.”

A sudden wave rolls through me and I follow
down the road.

.

I have come to the conclusion that a decent cup of coffee, the companionship of a good and beautiful woman, a sweet little dog are all I’m going to get when I look for meaning, for a reason good enough for having lived. But then I hear the tinkling sound of falling water and see a little pine tree moving in a breeze too slight to be felt, as if the tree is dancing to its own music. I hear a voice that I know is mine but I don’t own, saying something reassuring. Is it some deeper part of my own self patting me to get me back to sleep? Or is it some deeper intelligence beyond my ownership saying, “Wake up.”?
I will wait and see.

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One thought on “TO THE WHITE SALMON RIVER, MARCH 3, 2013

  1. I suppose you don’t like being compared to other poets, but this reminds me of a couple of poems by Heidegger, of all people! Will send them to you. It also seems very Zen, but then so was he, although that wasn’t realized until later. What goes around comes around, as the saying goes. God keeps writing the same sentences over and over, but like all revisions, each version is somehow new. Well, something like that!

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