This Is Everywhere
A calm mystery exists in these hills, these mountains,
this fertile earth on which I’ve never before thought to walk.
I stand in this middle of nowhere that is everywhere to some,
and I see what it means to bury a small piece of the heart
with every seed planted, to feel the rush of the rain:
muddy red rivulets, flowing beneath the skin,
to step barefoot in the sandy soil and understand the definition
of solidity, strength, because when I walk in this middle of nowhere
that is everywhere to some, I know why the trees spread their roots.
A calm mystery exists here, in these hills, these mountains,
this fertile earth, mystery that leads a person to search
not for the answers to the many questions of the modern world,
but instead for all the different feelings that can fill in the cracks,
the silver shadings of a pencil on ink drawings;
for the feelings that leave you empty in your wholeness,
like the form of a phantom, tangible only in its intangibility;
for the feelings that, in their calm, nebulous existence, take root
to transform this middle of nowhere into everywhere for you too.