A footbridge,
overgrown with winter creeper
and other puzzles,
greeted me on the trail.

I came for an
immersive space
for one,

in real time,
in an actual world,

and stopped
for handfuls of uncomplicated,
Earth-brewed happiness—
what I believe solitude
is all about—
and tried to harvest it,
but, being human and all,
I let go
and it’s now
mumbling incoherently
in the rebellious stream
the color of a melting sun.

Still I expand.

I breathe in a portion
of the Unlimited,
the softest
inner breeze shaped
by Truth,
by extravagant purity,
until I am
all clouds and fantasy.

But can I take it home with me?

I mean,
can I carry
it past the electronic wall,
the stampede
of egos, the countless
games and spectacles our
species dream up
every day?

Will it survive even . . . The Lie?

In the land of
too much information
to remain human
can the gentlest things
be ruined?

How to say goodbye now
to oaks chiseled into wonder by
age and endless reaching
for the sun . . .

I’m as old as they are
and younger than
the infant day

with the Infinite,
joy-infused and
soft-spoken and
in love with every world,
in my hands

and in everything

where It will never
be broken
and never let go.

Patricia Joan Jones