Down from the spruce grove to their sentinel tree
As they see me approach, same time, same place, every morning
Before the sun touches our land, their tree, shines in the window to wake the boys.
In evening the horses whinny and wait and follow me with their gaze
Twelve eyes tacking my every move
Waiting for the one that brings me close to them, to feeding time,
To the satisfaction their dependency upon me brings us both.
The moment of ritual, a forced or created or cultivated nature,
A measure of seasons, balance, and I begin to see, aging…
Time and time and time again
Like a wheel on pavement covering miles
With so many more left to go before arriving home.
(A place and space I wonder if we ever reach)
A pattern to our lives
The rhythm of day into night and back again
I slip into my rubber boots and zip up the parka
Without thought involved
Going through motions, mindless and calm,
The same I have done for how long and for what reasons.
Day in and day out
Over and over and over again
Time and seasons repeat in a predictable arrangement
And find myself balanced from the simple acts
Grounding in a otherwise ethereal life
Without such solid archetypes as our rituals provide.
The few givens to our day
Knowns to our lives
Comforts to our chaos.
Posted by: highmountainmuse