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Poet Commentaries

Miss Directed

The laughter. I wonder about isolating each of the Guides’ giggles, like a choir master. To rearrange the girls according to the infectiousness of their tone and the brightness of eyes. Is it possible to produce on cue?

This is impossible and not my job. I am here for an object lesson in survival training. What I really teach is breath control, trying to get them to hold onto the note of laughter longer; beyond the fences of the yard.  The lesson, like a giggling choir, will come or not come.

It would be cruel and useless to tell them why I teach; about being lost among weeds someday. They will not hear about how tomorrow they will eat a fruit that will take the fence down, no longer protected by parents. I will not be there to cue them. Just prayers. They will learn how to deal with lostness. This can help.

This is the challenge. Walk across the lawn towards the ancient oak in a straight line. Now blindfolded. They cannot ever do it, none have. Not even the elder to the prodigal. One who veers left will veer left, one who veers right…, odd how that sounds deeper than it is. It is simple, you will get lost and you will tend to handle wrong. In fact, even in compensating and awareness the slant is there. I say this is what people walking in the wilderness must learn to keep on track but they do not know the wilderness yet and ancient oaks are hard to find.

the myst
shrouds the tree
sixty five percent water

the ancient oak
between here and there
multiple paths
a lost guide whistles
gravel crunches

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