Down the hill, Sara and I tumble gently
heels-over-head, beginning and ending
as the other for somersaults will do that,
grass stains smell greener than they look
smeared across the lips of a grazing young
doe, sun on the neck has never been warmer,
near hot on the back of calves stretched taut
en pointe, mycorrhizae underfoot soothes our soul
for we are not alone in this ancient crazy place
susceptible to life, prone to being alive,
an altar upon which we recite our ode to living,
exalt dark heavens where wisdom is surely actual;
We are always Nature she says as we roll to a stop
at the gate of a beautiful garden.

© The Other ∞