These Teachers

I meant to turn back
hours ago,
but the sage,
but the river,
but the evening sun
on my shoulders
and the path
that leads up
and up, the whoosh
of air as it parts
for the sparrow,
the scent
of juniper
arrives
and remains
in a constant
state of arrival,
the sole
of my shoe
leaves an imprint
in the dust, a heart
shaped rock,
and this quiet
prayer that one
does not lose
these earthly
teachers,
but rather,
becomes them.

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We Are Human

The wind still blows
through the trees
when we do not listen

and the grass
it grows under our feet
as we walk

over this spinning earth
moving and always
moving,

each of us making
our own way toward
solid ground.