I do not suffer from a lack of solitude.
I find the consciousness of solitude
when assuming the role of observer.
It frees me.
to linger in a slice of shadow
to move slowly to a standstill
to sway along with a crowd unnoticed
To go where I can loose myself
a reach too far from home improvements
safely distanced from news bullets shooting my way
nicely disconnected from never ending lists
Solitude may be as close as a step into my garden.
Although small, it can become the entire universe on occasion.
There is one plant out there with flowers that open aloft tall stalks
with colors like the yellow silks of Sari’s blowing in the wind
the perfect petals catch me off guard when they bloom
their appearance always makes me feel some language has begun
between us, as though they are speaking directly to me after
all their petals have spoken.
I am not sure if they communicate at some shrill level that humans
cannot actually hear, but the effect of their astonishing embodiment
of delights would be deafening if we could.
And then there are the succulents that sit plumply with confidence
as though they came from outer space. They almost burst into song with
their floral magenta geometry speckling over their green pudgy-leafed
waterfall of growth tumbling over their planter defying gravity.
Whether I go to my small garden or to the Grand Canyon
I think my solitude comes from connecting with the drama of nature
as it reveals itself without having to give or gain trust.
It is a perfect world that lets us into its solitude.
