Care
Every day I hear your name echoing
across the snow-covered plains.
A reply would be easy to hear.
Is this the sound of the silence of care?
The waves crashing on the beach
Are listening to a deep wisdom
Forged by the love of the moon.
The surfer hears this and realizes
He does not care.
The heat that lines
The skin from head to toe,
Curling fingers in fists,
Anger pulsing a deep primordial rhythm,
Beating with the heart of care.
The leaves fall from the tree in autumn.
It does not shiver or complain.
Branches grow heavy with snow.
It stands as if before.
We say it does not care.
When need arises the body grows stiff.
We move out of fear instead of desire.
We find pale grasping hands outstretched
In which there might have been care.
Blake, if one day you have a son,
Let him cover himself with mud.
If he comes home bruised or scarred,
Present unjudging. Show him
What it is not to care.
Read more from G. Blake Harrison-Lane
~ And Poetry After Dark
