| Poetry |
We must be able to go away
and yet be like a tree
rooted in earth
standing fast while the landscape passes.
We must hold our breath
until the wind dies down
and different air starts to encircle us
until the play of light and shade
of green and blue
shows the old pattern
and we are home
wherever that may be
and able to sit down and lean against it
as if it were the gravestone of
our mother.
By Will Johnso