Maybe this is how I love the land,
to leave her
wild and free of my vision
whole and holy.

Maybe this is how I love my Self,
to leave her
wild and free of my vision
whole and holy.

And what, you ask, have I learned?
Only this—that I care
how evening sunlight rides
downstream in early fall,

how spider’s web hangs
in the bowing sycamore,
how heron stands gracefully,
patiently in river’s eddy waiting

for dinner, squawking
awkwardly skyward
when no fish come,
that this is enough.

There is nothing to do
no thing to grieve
save the confusion of not knowing
until now. Simply, let it be.