Second Helping

I lace my hiking boots
to the pulse of raindrops meeting
parched Earth, today calls
for a sturdy shoe,
no umbrella to shield me from the elements.

She levitates around my feet
wishing me faster to the doorknob
as it turns clockwise to freedom.

We strike out on an all-too-familiar path
staccato footfalls muted by a veil of rain,
soft and supple as chiffon
swaying before an open window.

Six clicks of a walking stick
and we enter the sanctuary of lichen-covered trails
cool and quiet, yet not without movement
leaves and branches bow and sway
as puddles rekindle their jubilation

Why is there no name for the sound of falling rain?
More soothing than static, richer than white noise...

Deeper in the woods, deeper into self,
the crisp call of a cardinal shakes
us from our morning stupor
Senses heighten
breath quickens
we are hydrated deeper than our skin

Yawned from the mouth of the trail
I stand frozen at the specter...
a dancing lake embraced by oak, sycamore and mimosa...
layers of mist shrouding their intentional greenness.

Brown dog, flying low across the dam
breaks my gaze,
the scent of blackberries and loam
swirl in her wake...pulling me along the creek.

Cedars cling to rain on outstretched arms
in a tug o’ war with gravity for each precious drop.
In our passing, we are careful not to engage
in a battle not of our making.

Will the cascade, held to a whisper by drought,
bustle once more or will the Ridge open its craggy,
leathered fingers to drink in every drop?

Anchored steps and sturdy rope aid
our descent into the meadow
the grandiose sweep of walnut branches tickle
bowing grasses into gales of laughter, soaring above
low...growling thunder.

Shelter is near, yet we are unhurried
to sever ourselves from the feast...
to be in dry clothes,
restored to the order of the World.

All too soon, staccato footfalls
and the click-click of a walking stick
will lift the veil between worlds...

the un-named and the one named chaos
known by the listening as yearning.