In the time of grace beyond three score and ten
a clearing opens up before me at the edge of woods
where I have made my fires, built my homes,
and gathered nuts and berries for my journey.
But in the clearing bright with sunlight
I have lost my way,
no towering oak to offer orientation,
no brooklet running down the hill to show the way to river and the sea.
The grass waves this way and that,
the breeze turns flower heads in manifold directions.
The grass receives my pathless footsteps,
thistle heads reach out to grab my shirt,
the ripening blueberries await the bear,
as I stand fixed on edge between the forest and the field,
between the sheltering trees and flowered meadow,
searching for the harvest still to come,
the company of home.
Oh Bill, this speaks to/for my heart. Much gratitude, as always —