Twelve hundred feet I hike up hill
With purpose undeterred to sit
A bench stands rife with Nature's spoor
I rest amidst lush greenery

I think therefore I think I am
These thistles, foxtails do not think
Yet they seem even realer now
Than I the interloper here

These paltry words will write themselves
In hope of capturing this once
And then I'll wander back to home
As they in silent knowledge stay

These spiky, rustling weeds are mute
But tell me wordless mysteries
Of hidden forces spinning green
Relentless creatures for my mind

Presumptuous is Man, we know
And moments such as these remind
Presumptive thinkers, like or not,
We are a transitory breed

11/07/2001

Posted on 11/07/2001
Copyright © 2024 Ronald A Pavellas