at a center
Gaia often whispers,
as with a May apple blossom,
or repeats herself with geranium after geranium,
or just stands assertive before me
as with a textured mountain,
at the top of a grassy bald called Max Patch,
She crescendoes with a rightness
that erupts and ripples away before me,
I am here at the center
as if at the hub of a compass,
and all the directions are held
by the circling mountains before me.
by Henry H. Walker
May 20, ‘24
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