Scraps of paper, crabbed handwriting,
words written to myself, photos and images,
shards of pottery and smooth river stones,
acorns, nuts, last autumn's pressed leaves,
dried flowers from long vanished gardens,
tufts of grass, egg shells and compost,
dusty books well read, torn envelopes.
Cards cherished, faded notes from friends,
raggedy bits of ribbon, feathers, tissue paper
and mottled glass, endless mugs of black tea,
beeswax candles and incense, that knowing wind
in the trees, those scraps of birdsong, what a
tatterdemalion heap of patches and blowing bits,
what a towering horde, what a hodgepodge,
what an outlandish accumulation.
From these, I am creating a strange collage,
a statement of some sort, perhaps even a life —
No, no statement needed here, only stillness
and a little wonder breathed in now and then,
an old friend encountered and warmly
greeted along the trail into the ferny woods
or down by the water's edge at twilight.