poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

The Myth of Solitude

        

Hiking boots have rubbed sores 

on both ankles, through thick sox

Shift the pack, sit on a log beside an alpine lake

take off the old boots from years back

from what might or might not be

the feet you started with

it’s hard to see, but you’re still there

and not.  Being is confused, or you are.

Solitary as Thoreau at Walden

while his mother did his laundry

even in a crowd no one knows

what you’re thinking

seeing, hearing, tasting

in its mind-wrap

yet the lake, trees, the soft waves

wind-persuaded lapping at nearby logs

the high bare ridge above the trees 

on the other side of the lake

stubborn weeds poking through

pine needles covering the forest floor

share what you’re thinking, sensing

without the wrappers

seeing nothing

with its stable little ‘n’

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