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In my own meadows
I've walked my own meadows countless times; if moments spent were counted years, or footsteps in days, I would have been there as long as my feet have touched the planet. I've seen the rye I've sprinkled for six lonely cows flash green for two years and infinite days; I forget the time. I've read Thoreau take in nature's great promise of healing, then gone out asking for the service myself. As soon as I pass the great stone of future pond, I shed my year's like Emerson's snake. All my friends are dead, and so am I. We are reborn in the blooming of the blue, white mushrooms that appear and disappear like ghosts. I wander, no longer searching, but just content to find; to witness the moment of it's existence or accept it's absence. We are like the mushroom, we flush with the ripe fruit of experience and bleed into the aether, at least a part of us, and then we are gone. I know not whether we forget ourselves, but I know the mushroom never really dies. At worst we are scattered from our current place and churned through the stomachs of other life; then again we find ourselves emerging in new life, in new places. When I've walked back inside, each time, I feel like I've brought with me a part of that forever.
