Mr. Simpson demonstration

HikingWalking stickWater bottleTrailAspenSpruceStreamSunlightLeavesBootsPack

SongsGuitarHarmonyLyricStageStringsFingersStrumFamilyRecordingHeard

MeditationAloneListenLift HandsSingGodPrayerNatureMovingRocksHeart

HikingMy boots, my pack,

my walking stick and water-bottle are always ready for hiking.

The aspen leaves and the spruce needles

Sunlight streams through the branches at the start of the trail.

SongsThe strings and the fingers and the strum make the guitar sing

The lyric matters, the melody matters, the harmony matters, all must be heard to make the song

The stage is different from the recording: audience becomes family

MeditationOnly alone, can I really listen, can I really sing, can my heart pray.

Moving through nature, among rocks, like branches seeking God, hands must be lifted

___________ Good ______________ 

__________ stand _________ __________ window.There ________ _________ glass ________ ________ ________ shape of a

______ .________ _______ sighs _______ __________ caves in your _________ .You are _______ ________ in the tree _________ .  The ________ _________ _________ .________ weather, ______ ________ , like _______ life,is partially _______, _________ up in the _________ .There is nothing ___________ _________ _________ .  __________ ________ __________ gives no ________ .It ________ _________ ___________ of despairand _________, _________ foot, ___________ , offering nothing,and you __________ _________.

On Good Hiking (draft #1)

I stand behind this window.There is no glass in this, the shape of a pupil.A house sighs with time, caves in your safety.You are the one in the tree branches.

The wind is blowing.Dark weather, building clouds like my life,is partially covered, branches up in the sky.There is nothing I can say.

The weather today gives no hint.It will begin speaking of despairand loss, one foot, two… offering nothing,and you leave home.

On Good Hiking (draft #1)

I stand behind this window.There is no glass in this, the shape of a pupil.A house sighs with time, caves in your safety.You are the one in the tree branches.

The wind is blowing.Dark weather, building clouds like my life,is partially covered, branches up in the sky.There is nothing I can say.

The weather today gives no hint.It will begin speaking of despairand loss, one foot, two… offering nothing,and you leave home.

On Good Hiking (draft #2)

I stand behind this window.There is no pane the shape of a pupil.A house sighs with time, caves in safety.Outside, the tree branches sway.

The wind is blowing.Dark weather builds clouds in my life,the storm is partly covered by the branches in the sky.There is nothing I can say.

The weatherman gives no hint today.Hiking begins in despairand loss, one foot, two… still nothing,but I have left home, looking.

 

On Good Hiking (draft #3)  

From behind that window,no lens-shaped panefocused out beyond the eaves,inverting sunlight, streams of dust pinging receptors near the backcorner of the bedroomwhere I read each night.A house sighs with time, caves in,complacent, protective,introspective.

Blind at home,most endure the collapse.

A breath sets the aspen leaf trembling, spruce needling,a cloud building beyond domestic comfort—a dark front, cataract’d—no seer,no clear forecast…

..that is to say

my boots, my pack, my walking-stick and water-bottle are always ready for travel.

All trails begin as loss, one foot, two—nothing for miles but the leaving—and yet hefting the load,turning from homeis like the openingof new eyes.

 

Nueva Vista (draft #4)  

My window wasno lens-shaped panefocused out beyond eaves,inverting sunlight, dust-rays pinging receptors near the backcorner of the dim bedroomwhere I used to read each afternoon.A house sighing with comfortcaves in, complacent, protective,introspective.

Blind at home,we embrace a collapse of sorts.

But today a breath sets the aspen leaf beckoning, spruce needling,clouds building beyond still rooms—a dark front of promisecrackling open,prying this domestic cataract…

..that is to saymy boots, my pack, my walking-stick and water-bottle are here at hand.

Every trail begins in loss, one foot, two—nothing for miles but the leaving—Oh, don’t turn backfrom hefting the load,from shrugging off the familiar architectures.

Unobstructed rain, the slap of sole and earth my gasping breathsare the new-openingof infant eyes.