After Wendell Berry. “Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.”
However adrift and lost I feel
I will set at the back
of the room, full of folks who may agree
with where I stand, and sing my simple song.
I will wander and search
through the roots of a tree,
meditate in sun-soaked silence,
asking for the spirit to guide me.
Service, what is it? I ask to postcard blue
skies, homestead is the place I can thrive,
I walk hills of orange and dream of the coast,
and hear music to ward off the ghosts, she whispers,
“Service is many things; holy is the neighbour of home.”
What true purpose can there be other than grass
tickling bare feet, contemplating October bees.
The World Outside the Window 