forward motion

the world meets us when we walk toward it

forward, my friend Cornelia urges in her response

to my wintry stuckness, this foot race of a million steps

the horizon always just there, never quite here

a harrowing goal, a grinning prospect

toddling trudging tenuously in its direction

on the Mobius strip of this mud and water clad orb

from down the block, every day and always, including on this frigid one

comes the man in his canvas coveralls clutching a bag

on his way to the bus stop where he’ll ride downtown to walk

before returning to walk again here and then back to the bus stop

looping looping looping a pattern only he knows by heart

a friend managed a conversation with him — a Vietnam vet, no eye contact

he’ll take fresh vegetables when she offers them but little else

we all have monikers for him — mine is Walking Man

he punctuates my day, a time keeper as regular as the train

that runs at the end of the block, chugging through my dawn and dusk

these mornings i wake with the familiar pain of returning to this body

the quiet of the house an acidic recognition of the loop of aloneness

over the brewing coffee, dog looking up with hope for her ball,

that muddy green planet her endless passion

i recall what i’m walking toward, the people walking near me

the hurts of this world in need of a warm hand

the words impatient to appear in an ordered manner

all of us lurching, limping, leaning into the future

no matter how backwards this worlds sometimes seems

(nearly) without fail a small valve in the back-most of my heart

flutters and pulsates with the ancient belief that with forward movement

i may eventually be met by someone walking on the horizon toward me

perhaps clutching a bag, perhaps filled with garden vegetables, perhaps in love

i bring the coffee to my mouth - sharp and hot, it pulls me into this day

photo by Carlos Hernandez