Step Into the Grass

Tonight

I’ll bare my feet

and step into the grass;

and, for the first time

since the sun

last set on my naked

shoulders,

I’ll prostrate myself

before the rising moon.

So much time has

passed since then,

since I last felt raw

moonglow on

my rusty skin,

that I have forgotten

how the breath of night

can upturn a sallow face.

Long ago,

when I could still remember

how to pause,

and how to listen,

and how to breathe,

for more reasons

than just to breathe,

I knew fields

and wood,

and calico aster;

I knew how to kneel,

and how to observe,

and how to bring myself to quiet.

And I knew,

without knowing,

that if I lay

on my back

beneath the reeds

and remained hushed,

as night clouds

floated by,

shadowed and silent,

that my Self

would simply fall

away.