“Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.”
“We finished clearing the last
Section of trail by noon,
High on the ridge-side
Two thousand feet above the creek.
Reached the pass, went on
Beyond the white pine groves,
Granite shoulders, to a small
Green meadow watered by the snow,
Edged with Aspen-sun
Straight high and blazing
But the air was cool.
Ate a cold fried trout in the
Trembling shadows. I spied
A glitter, and found a flake
Black volcanic glass- obsidian-
By a flower. Hands and knees
Pushing the Bear grass, thousands
Of arrowhead leavings over a
Hundred yards. Not one good
Head, just razor-flakes.
On a hill snowed all but summer,
A land of fat summer deer,
They came to camp. On their
Own trails. I followed my own
Trail here. Picked up the cold-drill,
Pick, singlejack, and sack
Ten thousand years.”
“Now I write by the light of the moon,
Though it is dim,
An orb half-full and growing, ever turning on its distant axis.
How long since I last saw snowfall?
It must have been a century since then,
The train rolling easy over the flat lands of North Dakota,
The world a fresh new slate of snow.
The same joy now inhabits my body that once inhabited me then,
When the old tall oaks were but fragile saplings,
When the rivers ran undammed through forests and hills,
When mountains once stood higher than men,
Proud and unconquered.
This is when I once was happy, and now it returns,
Everything comes full-circle, everything is cycles,
Just as the moon, half full and growing, fills the night,
It fills my soul and these very pages with inspiration,
And so it continues, forever.”
“I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.”
“For it is the same indivisible divinity that is active through us and in Nature, and if the outside world were to be destroyed, a single one of us would be capable of rebuilding it: mountain and stream, tree and leaf, root and flower, yes, every natural form is latent within us, originates in the soul whose essence is eternity, whose essence we cannot know but which most often intimates itself to us as the power to love and create.”
-Herman Hesse, Demian
Bones and brittle branches
Break with weary footfalls
Sage saps sweet water from the earth
The sun sucks away what remains.
Flies in hectic orbit around me
Like electrons moving faster
Than they ought to move
Look for food among the wrinkles of my clothes
And dried out crevices of dirty skin.
Dust dares the air to dance
They swell up together from the ground
In sweeping spirals they rise
I take them in
They fill my lungs in equal parts.”
“Wind whistling through her hat
She reaches for the summit
She can touch it
With her finger
In the air.”