Dale Cottingham

    Tall grass comes volunteer in the pastures
I pass, striving in poor soil, stunted by drought,
like one of those times that arrive
when what you need doesn’t come,
as if the gods deprive to purify you
but also to say that you

    are all you have. There’s a wind that comes
moist with promise, when my eyes raise to horizon,
words lead to lines showing me new vistas covering the old ones,
my will running rampant over valleys, hills,
taking what comes, as I am able—
or think I’m able, or tell myself
I am able. There’s a wind that comes dry,
day after day, when I see the options I thought I had
vanish. I’ve known what it is to be alone,
eating alone, sleeping each night
alone. I’ve been with others, sometimes
telling myself it would be forever, but
that wasn’t so. We parted each time,
casting knowing glances down halls,
words said in sorrow which is a kind of release,
moments lingering, that distill me,
mark me.

    I am lost on a plain
not happy or sad, but at loose ends:
maybe this is what freedom means,
with all its uncertainty, the venturing forth,
then holding back, brooding over verbiage ,
what may have been meant as casual talk,
but I take to my speaking bone.

Not sure it matters where I go this morning,
or if I’ll be missed, so I’ll keep my walk
for its while, thinking, conjuring,
hearing tall grass soughing in wind.