With all due respect to Joe Darion and Miguel de Cervantes
The trees stand like giants in the yard,
Arms waving hello in the breeze
They seem rather static for giants
but they are my giants,
And they do not do battle with me today.
I see what I see
and then draw on the page in smears
the world is a melting painting, all colors and lights
take what you will.
Today I'll take the words “breath,” “dance,” and “forest”
you take the rest and
We'll see what happens.
--Not too many people take me up on that offer--
Must I appear crazed, lunatic, to others?
I do walk along the creek and hide
in the bushes when someone approaches.
When they discover me, as they inevitably do,
They wonder at my disconnected phrases.
My odd observations, explanations
when asked what I've been up to.
I'm a writer not a talker,
A tilter not a walker
of straight lines.
No wonder my friends and sometime antagonists
are giants with coverings of leaves.
No wonder I wander alone.
I need a sidekick like Sancho Panza,
But rather than a man and a farmer
She'll be a woman, a sower of words
Perhaps she is sitting at a coffee shop,
a cup at her elbow right
Now
Writing a sonnet or an sf novel.
Or perhaps she is among the shallows along the creek
waiting for me and quietly gurgling
as she blows out against the current
creating large bubbles
That last mere seconds but hold an entire universe
Where else to find a companion for La Mancha
Except Low,
in the shadows under the trees,
or High among the sun dappled branches
All else is too ambiguous
For marching into hell
for a heavenly cause
I can ignore the strange looks from the neighbors
Because, along with my companion,
I know if I only be true
to this glorious quest
That my heart will lie
peaceful and calm
when I've deemed I've dreamed
My best.
Ellen A. Wilkin