I rate my existence
midway between root, bone and creature.
I do not seek liberation in any Hereafter.
Rather, I search for it in forests, oceans,
landscapes –
places I have been somewhat forced
to traverse in a body designed more for rugby
than the long-distance runner.
My bicycle was once my favorite means of conveyance,
easily carrying me fifty miles a week,
wind moving over my skin
at a pace more native to my spirit.
But the vagaries of a life constrained
by the foibles of finite time
have forced me into other modes of locomotion.
And so I walk.
The bones of my hips and legs,
less certain now than in my youth,
are nevertheless unquestionably
more solid on the ground.
Even when traversing that ground feels like labor.
Even when I remember the joy of moving faster.
Yet how can my bones meet the bones
of the planet if I am forever outpacing her?
I think of the shiny round bugs
I regularly encounter along the trail,
their tiny armored bodies making their way
at what appears to me a crawl.
Perhaps to them
I am the one hurtling overhead.
Perhaps there is no pace
at which the earth can finally be known.
Only this continual slowing,
this placing of one substantial foot
before the other,
my bones carried for a little while
over hers.