thirty-two water crossings
and just shy of ten miles
later, I might discover
a jealousy of this stone
but for now I am here and
its perspective is mine –
yes, it is possible to be
both cold and cradled
for exhilaration to rise
from old bones and leaf mold
I am more I, more in
while I am without
it is life that kisses me
through creek-wet feet
© Sarah Whiteley
I am not much at peace these days
nothing sleeps, not even
the stone of the mountain,
though I find I can slow my heart
the nearer I am to its sky-graced peak
to be alone here is to be still
from the rigors of survival
and for a while, it is enough
that I am I, that the mountain is,
and that we can be awake
in this place together
© Sarah Whiteley
Today I hiked 6 miles through the woods to find some small, momentary peace. The snow (and at times sleet) made it all the more peaceful and I spent several minutes just breathing it all in above the valley. It was just me, the birds, all the forms that water takes, and one lone coyote who left his tracks across the trail. It could not have been more perfect.
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
if, every now and again,
I must be smaller than myself –
then let me be small
let me curl into gray
unknowing stone, or disperse
downward as rain on windows
but let me be small
in the way of violets,
which at their core
are no less expansive
than the most colossal
of radiant skies
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 