A man hiking a path as a form of meditation
marches as he was ordered to march
in military formation on his way to a no-count war,
shuffles as a man might shuffle after breakfast in later life
to a room with a single bed in a nursing home
In the choppy footfalls of his march he lifts his eyes
from the ground onto the expanse of the ocean,
to bulbous clusters of expanding clouds,
to red blossoms atop bougainvillea bushes;
To young women dashing by with their dogs
and says aloud to himself, “Stride…stride…”
stretches his legs out long, quickens the pace,
finds hillocks, hops ruts, slips around
couples pushing carriages, holding hands,
strides to his destination at a café table
where a cup of very hot, very black coffee
and a very rich cinnamon roll under a cumulus
of very thick vanilla frosting soothes the fear
he cannot wish away just by wishing
Having felt his stride anew he brings himself to sit still,
to the sensation of how good it is to finally arrive
in the sanity of early morning where doves
have settled in the deep cool grass,
to a place where he no longer hears the wounded
calling out for their mothers
