Weathered

Today I walked across
a patch of earth like
fresh-baked brownies - soft, dense,
cracked on the surface.
The best kind, warm on my feet.

I walked past the wooden platform
(for a “scenic view”)
past the broken orange construction fence,
to Whalon Lake -
a man-made lake
which the birds and insects
will never know was made by men.
I tried not to step on
too many reeds, budding in the marsh.
I tried not to think about the leeches
that might squirm in the mud on my toes.
I tried not to think about
the problem swamping my mind and
I tried to think that maybe if I let it
flow away from me, like the waves of wind
over the water, I would be okay. Better.

I went to the wooden platform,
intending to sit on its warm weathered
planks, and listen to the birds
that sound like Iowa -
only to find that it was not
wood, but compressed plastic.
Of course. Man-made.
It just looked like wood from
far away
weathered wood.
At least the fence surrounding it
was real. I touched it.

Weathered,
like my soul is,
like I hope my soul to be.
Which is why I write
and walk
and think
and let the mud
dry on my toes.

~Summer of 2006