Finding Your Feet in a Harsh Land
Where can we find real guidance when the world’s gone wrong?
There is no father’s hand on my rudder.
I rely solely upon the river —
sometimes even that runs into
the banks, bow upended.
I could fly but again I’d be blind.
Giving up earthly life as my guide
I look to the soul & the urgent force
carrying us all downstream into the world.
How can birds be so happy
when we are in such disarray?
Grow feathers — fly far from this disaster.
Such dreams are how we find ground
in the groundless footing of our lives.
Next door, a grey stalk of a man
plants his beans. I am a neophyte in
ways of the land — but a finger of sun
points at a scrap of hair.
It’s something but less than a hand.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
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