(Photo: Matthew Henry )
We try to divine what we know
or what we think we know
in terms of people and places
and things
We tell ourselves these narratives
that only reinforce our prejudice
against others as well as ourselves
But the mile less trodden on
uncut in fields rarely visited
when the sun’s direct light
bakes they clay hard and fills
the surrounding sky with scent of sweet grass
and pungent dried earth
truth awaits us
In this field
where the blue dragonfly alights the Black Eyed Susan
it’s gossamer wings only a moment’s hesitation
before its dash back into the summer air
and in this field where the grasses make warm beds
for nursing deer
Truth awaits us
In this field
where the only sound breaking through the whisper
of wind running it’s fingers through the grasses
or the buzz of a worker bee diligent about
his duties
is the truth ready to be spoken to an ear willing to hear it
And that truth is sometimes the healing hurts as bad as the hurting did when the hurting first happened to us
So we fill our heads with static
whispers about neighbors, about ourselves
never thinking that pain doesn’t have to be
the destination
it can just be the journey