I remember that day in Brewster, Mass.
I was standing in a meadow, shoots of grass
bending over my shoes. Dark clouds.
A pallor on the sand dunes and gravestones.
I was trembling when the rains came.
That same morning I’d been overpowered
by the August sunlight, I saw myself
in the water’s reflection, a fainting child.
I have been small and thought myself smaller.
So what could I do when the ants fought
over that crumb of bread? I sat and wept.
But now I’m at home here, among friends.
I offer you the walnut shell, its mindless
protection. Its seeds, the germination of evening.
Let’s not speak of death. I say this:
I was formed by the earth, and am.
I do not chastize its mystery, our slight
discrepancy. I welcome its pull, its release.
Or, I love the world, but would not choose to live there.
The Transcendentalist
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