Retreat

© Sarah Whiteley

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fresh as new nothing

high above the canyon, the bumblebee wears its band of orange as it slips into the lips of the lupine

I have clamored up the steep creek, braving the slickness of rocks and roots for this spoon of solitude

up here, I am as anonymous to the wind as fierce-clinging heather – alone with ballads of bees and fresh as new nothing

© Sarah Whiteley

I’m slowly adjusting to my return to “civilization” after an adventure in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness. Mostly I am trying to hold onto that feeling of space and freedom for a while longer, but more posts about my experiences are sure to follow in the coming weeks. And for the first time, I journaled my experience with the help of a little weather-proof notebook my brother and his wife brought me on their last visit. Very handy!

placid with the mountains

I cannot be the abstract
the city asks of me

I cannot maintain the grind
of teeth, of grime –

the hot seconds stuffed
into dull hours

when I do not go out,
the ghost of going out

rises within and whispers
of how the November woods

still smell of autumn –
of how the sleeping lake waits,

placid with the mountains
etched upon her face

© Sarah Whiteley

finding nowhere

nowhere seems a good place to go –

the sort of place where you could dip your feet
in the creek and finally come up for air

where the silver underbellies of leaves
roll upwards to welcome the rain

where the first creature I might see
might be a solitary raven

and no one but he would even attempt
to talk to solitary me

nowhere’s as good a place as any

to look for the things that don’t ever
intend to be detected,

which is all right since nowhere’s only ever
in the looking and never in the found

© Sarah Whiteley

advice to the weary

when air grows heavy and tired
from too long falling,

day’s last birds will dive down
and in rising, shake it out before them

something, at least, is vibrant
is the message beaten out by wings

when you are lost, find stone that will
hold sun with radiant stubbornness

and if you lose your voice,
seek out wide swathes of grass –

for it’s grass that sings when
all other songs have gone

© Sarah Whiteley

after Livingston

that August in Livingston,
we meant just me
and the small dog tracing
the bends in the river
into the far edge of afternoon

one of us thinking of rolling
ourselves into the landscape
for keeps just for the peace,
the other enthralled
by sudden bursts of magpies

all these years after,
I never did find the right shade
to fade into and can’t shake
the sense of going the wrong
way against the river now

as if home had quietly
washed itself downstream
and settled on a sandbar –
lopsided and forsaken

© Sarah Whiteley