In interiors we loiter,
in homes, vehicles,
offices, shops,
cafés, gyms,
with life confined in
safe corners where nature’s
whisper is faint.

I call you to the wild,
where meets earth and sky,
where silence is loud,
as we tread paths worn by Thoreau,
and feel the ground beneath our tired feet.

Here we breathe the open air,
walk where the heart finds place,
in the woods, the bush, the fields,
in spots untouched by steel and glass,
where inspiration awaits,
like Plato found beneath his olive trees,
and Aristotle in peripatetic thought,
as his philosophy sprung to life.

Wordsworth, too, in his Lakeland’s place,
found his muse in each leaf, field and bubbling stream,
walking across the green and urging us to
let Nature be our life guide; and he, like, Emerson,
knew the worth of open skies, as did Thoreau in
Walden and his great waters of mirrored dreams.

Here we craft our thoughts in outdoor spaces,
in country, reading books of bark and breeze,
and turn pages of petal and leaf,
and we write our lives anew, each breath a line,
each step in this walk a verse,
each stopping to look a fresh revelation.

 

4/7/2024