In the shadowed chill and insect flitting

of this Oregon morning

I am stung

by my inadequacies.

I am not William Stafford.

My pen stutters,

my feet shuffle,

my metaphors turn red

and turn away.

 

Unconsoled by who I am

I can only reconcile myself

with where I’m at.

 

It is good to see

green nettles and orange-yellow columbine,

fruiting salmonberry and crimson-seeded maples

with my own eyes,

to breathe and send

oxygen to limbs and organs

with my own blood. The words

to describe these don’t matter.

I sense all this

in my body

and that is enough.