Writing desk

This is my writing desk. Oak, oak

This is where I read, write, sit, sit.

I have had many a call here while I think, think.

And before long I will look at a new visa, vista of a tree.

Not long ago I thought about the same things, the same things.

I would wonder like a boy, wandering.

For as a boy I did not get that freedom of wondering - it came at a cost, a cost.

So now, free man as I am take time to do nothing

but sit, read, think, wonder.

What and why and who and whose and should’s and choose -

the kind of life I’d like today.

What kind of life do I want today?

The gull flies to and fro and does not choose.

The dog has its master and comes when he calls.

Every creature is saddled with his lot

and I am saddled with mine - this

consciousness that is loosing its value.

Thomas Berry suggests, nay, urges us to seek

that spontaneous uprising within that could

lead us to new life - soul work.

I turn my head in that direction

and am led to the loneliness of the land.

My earliest friend, my constant enemy.

To be and not go anywhere but

here

This is my chose today, today.

Tomorrow, now that is for less

lovely creatures.