It is dank and cold
Gray, wet

Grizzled, like they say
Of a logger's beard
Once he's past a certain age

There are still loggers, you know
In some parts of the country
A dying breed

They told me, as I was
Growing up, that for a long time
The women died in childbirth

And the men died logging.
Many on days like today when
The sky drips itself down into
The earth, and the ground becomes
Unsure underfoot, slippery
Wet.

I chant to myself
Across the slippery sidewalk
The words the Italian graced
Me with, on his visit:

"Knowledge is not wisdom.
Wisdom is not truth.
Truth is not love.
Love is not beauty."

and my own response -

"Beauty is not compassion."

I fight through the fog of
Not enough sleep and
Half a bottle of Austrailian Shiraz
Before sex, before bed

I wend my way to
This place where they count on me

I am reminded
that truth is not love.

I watch the world curiously
I miss very little

I live.

The maya in which I live
is grizzled, like a logger's beard.

11/02/2006

Posted on 10/20/2007
Copyright © 2024 Gira Bryant