Picture: Nature morte au faisan dans la neige by Pierre-Auguste Renoir
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I have spent so long talking about it,
That I forgot to practice it.
Digital dreams, switched off.
Now I can observe
My compulsive actions,
Dictated by habit, ingrained in the flesh.
Now, perched up high, above
The objects of my desire and aversion,
I can look at them.
I am surrounded by valuable teachers
And companions: the birds.
Perched up high,
Feeling positive tension in my muscles;
Steady in my pose.
The soundscape is rich: little woodpecker-friend
Tapping away, in joyful essence – I can relate.
Now, I can relate.
The sun is descending through the canopy before me;
In due course, I will follow
And reconnect to the soil.
But now, I am perched up high,
Steady, feeling positive tension in my muscles.
I am going cold-pheasant, as my friends here teach.
The trees towering high with me appear to be stiff,
But only to the dull eye; they sway gently
In their winter sleep, once again,
True epitomes of flexibility – a high
Virtue, they preach.
They have one more teaching to offer:
Wisdom is merely about being sensitive;
Sensitive enough
To understand when to hold on
And when to let go.
Sometimes you need to climb a tree
As if your life depended on it, as if
Starving critters and venomous varmints
Were waiting below, at least I reckon.
Perched up high, ears open wide,
I can say you can learn a few things.
Rise responsibly…
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Herons