Voice on the Trail
—with a nod to poet Muriel Rukeyser (1913-1980)
All the voices of the Wood called “Shannon!”
But it was soon solved; it is nothing, it is not
my real name.
My real name is written on a stone kept warm by eternal
embers I am still too cold to hold.
Words like Real and Endure
Sound like Health and Hell
Then I see what is calling, it was the road
I traveled, miles behind, warning me of the FORK
The sound bounces forward, then back, right-side-down
warns of mud ahead―not to me, but to anyone.
And at last I saw where the road lies wide,
and clear orchard rows, easy fruit and bundled grass
roll along a tan, green and blue landscape.
Not for me. Not for me. Not for me.
I came into my clear being uncalled, alive, and sure
of all but what I see.
Nothing speaking to me, none know my real name―
not the owl, the fish or the elk, but I offer myself
to the strangers and it is well.
Strangers we are.
I know them all.