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He was seventeen when he read Into the Wild.
And then I showed up. I met him on that little bridge That crosses the stream Down where the park dips And crosses over into the fairgrounds. It was a crossroads, A crossing over. And I was the thing That he had read about. And he found it not Upon the Alaskan Tundra, But standing on the edge Of his town, Where the safety of his pristine Mid-western heritage Met the wild and almost reckless hope Of freedom. And I was almost dead, And barely born. And I trembled And fluttered like the leaves. But still, I was a wild thing. And the fancy swirls That adorned their covered porches Couldn’t lure me. And I left. But the reality of what he saw remains. It sinks deep into his dreams And calls him to the wild places, He and others. And perhaps you are next. If so, Come meet me there On the little bridge At the edge of town. I cannot promise I will stay, But I don’t need to. If it is freedom that you want, Then all it takes Is to see one free To know that it is possible. There were no books in the beginning.
And he stood upon the hilltop garden From which flowed all life, all truth. And the life giving waters flowed forth To water the four corners of the earth. And did not God say that it was good? And I believe that he was right. And so that is where I am going: Back to the garden. I am done with facts and formulas. I am done with calculations. I will drink from the stream Which flows from God Himself. For I am not wise enough to interpret. I am not keen enough to see. I am lost. And not even your brightest minds Or earth's brightest souls can save me. You say that you will translate it all again, And that this time you will get it right, And that once you do That we will find Him within it's pages. And the books pile high. But they will not reach heaven Though you build a tower past the clouds. |
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February 2023
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