Cutting Trails of Nothing Thru The Sky

“Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit.” – Berry

Berry is here in the realm of ideas.

In the realm of ideas everything depends on enthusiasm… in the real world all rests on perseverance.
—Goethe

There is no profit – future or otherwise, just activity. We just plant and plant and plant. And the persimmon seedlings volunteer. The pawpaw root suckers. An understory rises to a mid-story. A canopy rises of its own accord. Oh, slick hickory and the tulip trees in flower. We lay up nothing. Every loss, every windstorm blowdown, every failure part of the tread. Underfoot. It is the movement. The germination. The heart beat. The pollination. The honey. The gall. The kingdom of heaven at hand.

Moved from the realm of ideas and ready to move from hence. Gone, gone, gone beyond and back again. This is not a line nor is it a circle. Berry is right. We give approval to all we cannot understand. Its okay. She knows what she is doing.
Life’s job to bend us from ourselves. No freedom in personal will.

But what is this conjured on a Sunday morning?

Yeah, back to the nine bark flowering back to the strawberries ripening. Flee from the realm of ideas fast as iridescent blue wings will take you. The profit of poetry, bah-humbug. Back to dirt perseverance. Back to smokey bee dreams and beaver soup. Back to moldy seed trays and holy spring days. Outside in the spring morning sun. This is the tide to be conjured. This is life pouring. This is the movement. The tread.

Out, out, out I tell you! Fast as you can, remove yourself from here. Flee roofs and ideas! The sky. Yes. Your answer is there.

And the tree swallow dives to catch up the white goose feather she has dropped only to fly a little while and drop it again to loop back and catch it mid-air. This is our dance. Leila’s twirl. Spinning me out.

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