the weary eidolons of the spirit and your
wayward thoughts at home in the warm and dry.
Bring only your camera and notebook,
yourself, if indeed a self you have or are.
Leave that self somewhere among the
earthy wetness and the old trees.
Sit quietly with the drenched leaves,
these birds, that flowing stream, and
wait for them to speak or sing in the green
and wordless language that you share.
Know there are atomies vast and
teeming with life in everything you see.
Return home at the end of the day,
as a leaf yourself, a stone perhaps, or a star