I have no seeds in the ground
depending on orchestral coordination from nature
of warmth and rain and secret soil sauce
to grow into my next meal.
The rains may or may not come and I
won’t miss my next dinner.
The sun will shine or be covered by clouds and I
will still know what day it is.
It is the summer solstice,
or just another Thursday,
as I sit on a rock where humans have sat for hundreds of years
waiting to watch the sun’s beam stretch
across the center of the spiral
etched into stone so many years ago
to mark time when there was time to do so.
Anticipation fills the silence while the minutes pass
and as the dagger of pure light creeps across the petroglyph
it touches my heart
but not my stomach, not my deepest fears
of not having enough.
I ache to chime with that ancient clock
to feel the full meaning in marking the season
to feel a connection to everything around me
to reach back in time to grasp the thread of humanity
and pull myself back to when the rhythm of the sun
was everyone’s rhythm.
Instead I shuffle along
to a song I cannot hear.
