If you ride this wind to blue waters
stand there.
Dip your toes.
Squeeze your eyes shut.
Say “here”
then say it again.
We’ve heard it before
but I’ll say it again:
a life can blow right
through you if you
don’t stop on your
way from here to
there to feel all the
the ways the moment
holds the rustling grass,
the shower of apple blossom,
the tossle of curls,
the oncoming rush
honeysuckle, or October
woodsmoke, warm
bread in the oven,
summer tar, or the
smell of a bicycle
tire skid. Here
in the rippling back 40
at the end of the block
in a quiet pine grove
cathedral, in your
chair, in the corner
with a fat book, in
tears and a tee shirt
with your foot on
a hairline crack in
search of the next
foothold. Here.
Wherever you are
you are here. Every
here becomes a
there. Every there
another here. The map
is easier to read than
you might imagine.
If you ride this wind to blue waters
Stand there.
Dip your toes.
Squeeze your eyes shut.
Say “here”.
Then say it again.
Early Morning Poems 