The way is not in the sky.
The way is in the heart.
But we look there for it, don’t we?
Necks craned to watch the migrating
geese in their zipper formation,
taking note of how blue the blue is,
the clouds balloon fluffy or scudding
streaks. As we rake the backyard,
we look up at the stately sycamore,
its leaves brittle but not yet fallen,
knowing they won’t all journey
groundward till January, though,
with luck and rain, maybe sooner.
We forget to pause, lean the rake
on the trunk of that venerable elder,
place a hand to chest, to rough bark,
feel life pulsing within. If we close
our eyes, take a deep breath, and another,
and another, the way appears,
the ka-thump of reassurance
that this is how we practice love,
We turn our careful attention
to this simple moment, as we reach
again for the rake, hear the geese
calling overhead, feel the connection
to these leaves, so glorious in spring,
so graceful in death.