I’ve seen it over and over again: a man—or a
woman, child, teenager—goes out into nature, bows down in surrender, and comes
back a poet.
He cries in gladness and agony in the wilds.
He makes enduring art out of colored rocks.
He weaves together cactus spines, making a
soft blanket for his mate.
He paints the ancient symbols of
constellations on his palm.
He dances unclothed and marries a gazelle.
He eats with relish the salal at his feet.
He lays his head on a bed of moss, stretched
across a wide tree limb.
And.
He writes verse, melodic and sweet…easily
mistaken for spring birdsong.
And when he returns
home, he giggles at his unexpected poetry…wondering—with his intact, rational mind—how he can face the beauty of those impromptu words, how he can claim
them as his own now that he is back in his hometown. For that home place does
not recognize him as a heartful man, as a tender soul, as a feral romeo.
But he does return to that wonderland of
nature over and over, continuing to deepen his story, fine-tune his craft, rest
and move…and write tomes of poems.
He does return to that wonderland of nature
over and over, becoming ever more the man that he is.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2017 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
