Sunday

1.

I walked today, amongst several colors of grasses and amidst winds that scraped and soaked my silver face, wet from the morning dew, and sore from the strong pull of the corners of my mouth.

I used to feel as though I was an infidel, incapable of belief in that which was wont for me to believe.

But I do believe in something.

2.

Avenues and boulevards and the roads which they advertise feel my weight upon them not nearly as much as do the fields of California poppies and sweet grass. 

I want to walk in them as much as my poor legs will allow me, and I want also, to lie down in them in the morning and watch the larks lazily fly from one side of the sky to the other.

3.

And I come to your doorstep, my friend, with fingernails dirty, and eyes open wide, will you sing me a song to ease that pang of hunger which sits at the navel of my soul? It is the one that tells me: ‘you must go far.’ I know that you too have often felt it. I know that you too have often heard it speak.