Travel
The truth of being human
is an empty shell made of
soul intelligence.
—Rumi
The elm tree, feverish crown in wind,
slip and rustle of leaves, reduces
my jitter to rhythm that flows over my
"What more?'
Animal breath
sways in the catch of sun on surface,
tastes moments that only
green shape and smoky sur-surring
imprint on senses.
Can I memorize, without
effort, enough of soothing to retain
my day?
We strolled under
towering elms that lined Ioannina's lake
and the accord of those steps was so sane
it scattered all our lighter reasons for travel.
To command perspective,
to insert into history,
to gnaw at the tightening ropes.
It's all right, even now,
to stumble into mistakes, to fall and lie
flat on the path, glance up, gaze
as though flayed, into leaves
witlessly selecting pieces of space.
