Fishing Philosopher

I work with stone, dirt, plants, and water. I shovel and tamp and haul and push. My hands are pinched, my back is pulled, and my biceps are stretched.

Standing in the river I see the swift river birds dive and the gulls soar, I see the pitter patter of raindrops on the rushing water, and hope for a fish to bite my lure. I don't really want to kill anything but the fish tastes good.

My blood flows like the river, my bones are worn away like the stones, my muscles bend and sway like the trees in the wind. Sometimes my mind shines like the sun, other times like the moon.

I think about building a house, a wall, a waterfall. Harvesting the vegetables out of the garden takes time. The mind doesn't want to meditate, it wants to jump around and climb mountains. Learning to climb rock would take time. Time, being swallowed by the giant whale of life.

Fall coming up out of the ground like a mushroom. A motif presents itself to me: the Grotto. I remember that I haven't written poetry for awhile, haven't written a song in a year. Have I retreated to the primal cave to resurrect myself?