Stone

And what am I doing here, in a yurt on the side of a hill

at the ragged edge of the tree line, sheltered by conifer and bay,

watching the wind lift, softly, the dry leaves of bamboo?

I lie on the floor and let the sun fall across my back, 

as I have been for the past hour, listening to the distant traffic,

to the calls of birds I cannot name. Once, I had so much

I wanted to accomplish. Now, all I know is that I want

to get closer to it - to the rocky slope, the orange petals

of the nasturtium adorning the fence, the wind's sudden breath.

Close enough that I can almost feel, at night, the slight pressure

of the stars against my skin. Isn't this what the mystics meant

when they spoke of forsaking the world? Not to turn our backs to it,

only to its elaborate plots, its complicated pleasures - 

in favor of the pine's long shadow, the slow song of the grass.

I'm always forgetting, and remembering, and forgetting.

I want to leave something here in the rough dirt: a twig,

a small stone - perhaps this poem - a reminder to begin,

again, by listening carefully with the body's rapt attention

- remember? To this. to this.

--Danusha Lameris