Wrong Move
Living on pasta and cheese, carrots and coffee,
I neglected food for music. Cassette tapes. Spending my money
on gas to get to the canyon, I walked the trails
and ate the fog. Often it was night.
And listened.
Mud print of small mountain cats, after the rain
I hiked in whatever shoes I had. Once I slipped
and slid, stopping short from where the trail dropped
into steep ravine and tangled brush. I waited.
Thought. And prayed I could make the right
move, not make it worse. I was alone.
Slowly, I grabbed and belly crawled across
the mud. Up on one knee. And stood.
In those years I learned respect, was granted
peace. In those years
I stopped being hungry
for what I couldn't have.
Eventually the canyon kicked me out
back to the city. My car could no longer
make the trek. I finished school. Acquired
health insurance. And some skills. Worked too much.
Got really really tired. Lost sight
of essence the way it lived in me
even when I was afraid. Twenty years later,
have not slipped, but have stopped. Am thinking.
About how to make it right. I listen
to those old music tapes. The older you get
you feel you can't make any wrong moves.
This thought proves to me
what I've lost.
