The Old Mule

House on the Hill

Here is a photograph taken from a flatbed truck as I was about to make my first venture into the Oaxacan mountains to work with coffee farmers. Things were really about to change in my life. It is good to be thankful.

Last Holiday {Love}

The continents are sinking. Our new gravity pulls us inward into a new age. I feel the numbers rolling, a math of scattered leaves.

Human hearts cross, downward pulling. We gather in a park like family, only different, with more movement and forgiveness. Away from home our accents change, and the way we hold our hats. 

Autumn day, snow clouds. I wrap a coat around my friend and suggest a spot for reading. We recline in leaves, a chilly bed to make noise in. There is no better moment than when eyes first meet, take in another. A visit is one of the last blessings that we have. Supine beside another. We are drawn to warm spots, like a stomach sea-white beneath wool. A rest is another blessing, like floating on water.

There are poems perfect for dusk, with the sky still lingering, with us gathering our secrets to be told. A first wet grass before our new day. Should we feel our way back to the porch, in such duress, with such music? Are those coyotes singing? Lets walk and see.

The fire pulls us closer, lonely still, but fading. How do I speak with clouds in my tongue? A ravens perch, almost (too high). Water ascending now, so little time to waste. Draw me in again, wrap me in your words – red silk, night-words. So little time.

The distance between lands becomes nearer. Our throats sing from one to another. Why are our mouths yet so timid? Is the fall so dangerous we should not venture near? How will we know the perfect expanse of eternity without so much as a single furtive glimpse, mountainside, into her valleys?

In Between

I imagine Scottish winters are terribly cold. Although I never lived well beneath coats, I could learn. I am a peaceful man; a journey suits me fine. It’s the getting out that counts.

Not that Scotland is the place. There are other universes – humid islands, sea-captive and un-modern, cliffs of African sand, wild dunes and hemlock ranges held fast by constant drizzle. A guide would be unseemly. The world is worth little if a man fears it.

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Shallow lounges keep us from the sun. In a minute, I will finish my sketch and recline for an afternoons thought. The new feeling of travel – a desert captivated, a ravine unhidden; invigoration, sin, drought. If only to run from home, to be away. Just for the day.

I will plan my return upon arrival. No need for haste. The world is little if not unquiet. Here, beneath a verdant grove, new perspectives color each daily chore. A wind would be nice, but still heat invokes such clear memory.

Our globe holds us, then. That has been long set. It is the generations who sway like tides. My feet quicken over foreign sand.