This This

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My 50th birthday is here. I’ve a hard time believing it, but I’ve accepted its arrival. There isn’t much I need, rarely anything, but as birthdays do, they often introduce the question, and so I ponder the idea tonight.

Still nothing.

After a week in D.C. and time to breathe, I’ve come to the realization I need nothing, and for this, I am eternally grateful. 

What I want is something entirely different. Those around me can not give me this this I want, so much more goes into it.

*** This This

This this I want isn’t found, it’s given.

This this I want isn’t fair, it’s surprising.

This this I want isn’t impractical, it’s the opposite of.

This this I want isn’t mine, and I’ve gotten used to this…

This this I want isn’t close, but it’s out there somewhere.

Sense of Direction

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The summer rain has painted fields of sunflowers
and the August breeze cools the brow.
67 degrees in the Sandhills, and nobody can explain how.

Wheat with a sense of adventure has been brushed in for effect,
and life gets interesting
just beyond the hills,
as I hear, “You haven’t been over there yet.”

Push past the state line, skys bluer than azure await,
there’s small horse towns ’bout every 8 miles,
and remember, “When you leave, shut the gate.”

Fuel isn’t getting any cheaper, and time waits for no one,
so dismiss all the reasons why one shouldn’t,
smell the damp dirt, allow it to slide through your fingers, let the wind send it.

Press the pedal on the right, bite your lip, and
appreciate the sound of your giggle,
the prairie weaves over and under –
everything beyond here matters,
and you’re not getting any younger.

Weeding Out

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Imperative for growth to flourish appropriately,

It’s a sinking feeling when the time arrives,

And one we rarely want to admit to, because normalcy is comfortable.

Sometimes change masks itself as unknown, but we know.

One gut-wrenching pull at a time convinces us of its necessity, and the digging continues.

Beauty is stifled by its surroundings, however, she clings to what slowly kills her.

The world is full of what should be if we lean in: find grounding and settle.

Surely the weeding ends,

And the tools go back to the shelf.

To Worship Him

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imagine with me, if you will
red dirt dusted
upon his boots,
the chair otherworldly
a product of sturdy,
lean legs crossed
relaxed.
smokey eyes intent on
the crown of the moon
and sun before him
a sigh,
twilight.
aware of every shift, made upon his domain,
cheekbones defined
as he contemplates
his tomorrow.
I see him,
and all I need is to
worship him.