Earth, Company, and I
There, upon the logs of a hickory dock,
rests an old man with a faded frock
of hallow blues and dreary grays.
His light-colored eyes seem in a haze
as he stares at the deepening horizon,
the golden star, that fiery sun,
although his picture seems of dun.
Behind his shoulder stands a girl.
Why a girl? Well, she is young.
And what better way to prove innocence
than a reminder of that early tongue;
language in it's Sunday best. Because what...
what better credit can we give
to the thing that split even prejudice?
There is still a small light in our company.
Perhaps in the new or elderly.
This girl, well, she tugs upon his coat.
The old man sits dreaming of something he wrote,
so he hasn't got the patience
for this child of small intelligence.
Yet still his chin tilts sidely,
his brow perked widely,
and his frown rather weak.
Eventually this prompts the girl to speak.
"What is Earth?"
A question. To be expected, of course.
"Earth is this wood," the old man shows
with his weathered hand resting on the rows.
When a new wave spashes, his hand is caught in the spray.
"And the water, too, in a big way."
A sharp breeze comes in quick,
giving wet skin a lick.
Still he ponders.
And then he wonders
what the wind has to say.
"Feel that air, child?" A rhetorical question.
"It wants to mentioned. I know the frustration.
Well. I'll tell you then. The Earth is the wood,
the water, the wind.
And everything else you can even think of
because why limit this to what you can touch?
Like the life. The death. That odd in-between.
Do you understand, child? Do you know what I mean?"
Silence, great silence, or so it would seem.
Because seagulls are screaming
and the carpentry creaking
and the ocean constantly tugging itself
back and forth; far from stealth.
Words can't really form
when that little girl's torn
between Earth full of wild life
and Earth with it's death.
And then she realizes
as the next wave rises
that there can't be one without the other.
Life and death, they depend on each other.
Well. That's the way things are, really.
It makes one worthwhile
to know that you're dying.
Because there can't be a death without a little life
even the smallest creature can attest this alright.
Is it worth it, or not, she couldn't say.
The mountain can't wonder
about the presence of day.
Just like how people can't turn to each other
and tell them they'd rather have different weather.
It doesn't work that way. Not then or now.
The question, instead, shouldn't be how,
but rather WHO.
Who are you? Who am I?
You can't answer that. Well, you can try,
but something isn't always what you meant to say.
A confusion will settle when you see it that way.
Let it come over.
Don't try to cover
yourself.
Take a breath.
"I am..."
Don't use am,
and I is left.
rests an old man with a faded frock
of hallow blues and dreary grays.
His light-colored eyes seem in a haze
as he stares at the deepening horizon,
the golden star, that fiery sun,
although his picture seems of dun.
Behind his shoulder stands a girl.
Why a girl? Well, she is young.
And what better way to prove innocence
than a reminder of that early tongue;
language in it's Sunday best. Because what...
what better credit can we give
to the thing that split even prejudice?
There is still a small light in our company.
Perhaps in the new or elderly.
This girl, well, she tugs upon his coat.
The old man sits dreaming of something he wrote,
so he hasn't got the patience
for this child of small intelligence.
Yet still his chin tilts sidely,
his brow perked widely,
and his frown rather weak.
Eventually this prompts the girl to speak.
"What is Earth?"
A question. To be expected, of course.
"Earth is this wood," the old man shows
with his weathered hand resting on the rows.
When a new wave spashes, his hand is caught in the spray.
"And the water, too, in a big way."
A sharp breeze comes in quick,
giving wet skin a lick.
Still he ponders.
And then he wonders
what the wind has to say.
"Feel that air, child?" A rhetorical question.
"It wants to mentioned. I know the frustration.
Well. I'll tell you then. The Earth is the wood,
the water, the wind.
And everything else you can even think of
because why limit this to what you can touch?
Like the life. The death. That odd in-between.
Do you understand, child? Do you know what I mean?"
Silence, great silence, or so it would seem.
Because seagulls are screaming
and the carpentry creaking
and the ocean constantly tugging itself
back and forth; far from stealth.
Words can't really form
when that little girl's torn
between Earth full of wild life
and Earth with it's death.
And then she realizes
as the next wave rises
that there can't be one without the other.
Life and death, they depend on each other.
Well. That's the way things are, really.
It makes one worthwhile
to know that you're dying.
Because there can't be a death without a little life
even the smallest creature can attest this alright.
Is it worth it, or not, she couldn't say.
The mountain can't wonder
about the presence of day.
Just like how people can't turn to each other
and tell them they'd rather have different weather.
It doesn't work that way. Not then or now.
The question, instead, shouldn't be how,
but rather WHO.
Who are you? Who am I?
You can't answer that. Well, you can try,
but something isn't always what you meant to say.
A confusion will settle when you see it that way.
Let it come over.
Don't try to cover
yourself.
Take a breath.
"I am..."
Don't use am,
and I is left.