When I was 7,
I’d rally a small neighborhood troop,
To carve a tunnel through the blackberry bramble.
Lift the warmed wooden lids off garden snake traps.
Part overhead golden grasses in search of field mice.
Construct a fort roof of fallen pine branches.
Stockpile pinecones for an anticipated ambush.
Host a ceremonial burial for a fallen bird.
Not a far skip to my adult life where I spend my days*,
Carving small student group cultures.
Through the thickets of alien customs.
Catching the most basic of life assumptions unaware,
Searching for mindful treasures in jungles of stimulation overwhelm.
Exploring themes of self-reliance and fortitude.
Stepping in front of the virtues worth defending.
Encountering small deaths and the sacred in passing.
How life dangles clues,
That we may find ourselves through circles,
Growing into the prints,
Of our own footsteps in the sand.