We dwell in perfect compliance with
delusions of self-reliance in
the realm where disease is called “could”—
a plot in the suburb of “should.”
We gave up looking for the sun, so
instead lie back and poke fun, at
droll birds in sad clouds, a mocking
of soldier ants below flocking
Now one mentor walks on the grass, he
missed signs to use the brick path, and
gives the children back their marbles
naïve of parents, hot and startled.
Then out through the gate he went, but
not without brief sentiment, wished
we join his pilgrimage to Love
through the weeds and dust from above.
Walking to suburbs yet ahead, we
talk of joy, the mystery meant by
walking in the grass, blades poking through
the choice of the foot…..
each and ev’ry toe.
Author: Sherry Minnard
Volunteer Editor: Kim Haas / Editor: Catherine Monkman
Photo: Michael Barry via Flickr