I Walk and Waste

The air on Spaulding’s farm,

Like haiku music,

Vibrates with a spirit

Of patience and wonder.

I walk along a cartpath,

Into the woods.

I find that all I need

Is the sun,

That servant to sound,

This pleasuring-ground.

As these woods peer into muddy pools,

Perhaps searching the reflection of the skies,

I listen and dream of their families,

Silently weaving generations of arboreal-labor.