read or listen:
Is it better to be strong or curious
when the subject is moss?
Green patches of endless hues
home themselves on every boulder
lining the banks of the Deschutes,
a few hint at their super-power of turning auburn.
What strength do I need to notice them?
If we’re talking about the wild sage brushing my jeans
as I follow our noodly dog Dandelion
through brambly high desert woods,
a little strength is required,
but only a little.
I pull at the feather leaves,
clustered on peeling branches
now bunched in my hand
now pressed to my face,
yes - it’s the feast I’ve inhaled a thousand times,
honeyed and sharp,
no less satisfying now,
than the very first time
when my hands were tiny
and hungry for the new.
I was not strong then
but stuffed with curiosity
about what I could smell and eat and bend and twist and break.
It has been good to be strong now and then,
but always better to be curious,
on feet that are old
and sometimes young.
Tim, when I read the last stanza of this delicious poem I uttered, spontneously: "Ahhh, jeez. . ." I was that child you decribe, and I am also the one with old feet. Less breaking these days, but otherwise that child has not disappeared. Not by a long shot.