Not eunuch, though eunicized by loss of habit; not a libertine though free,
Not a bare-headed monk, but stubble bearded, balding, and more lay than not,
Moving in regular Joe clothes and wide eyed,
A follower, a seeker, a walker of Paths; however,
Neither husband nor single, neither miserable, nor happy,
His jeans always ripped early and low, the sneakers always dusty, the walks long,
Filled with tired care and tired eyes.
The many urges to leave, to walk, just walk and never stop, wrestled with
The need to remain in the thicket among the brambles and needling pine needles
While salving others´wounds, never able to cure
Sometimes never able to fully care, too,
Never being cold, never completely warm, not complaining, not ever pleased,
He walked in-between. As he lived.
The rabbit on the side of the trail held his stare for a long moment and neither blinked.
Couldn´t move, wouldn´t stay. In-between.
Down the way, a shaved forest gave way
To denser stops, down, down to the colder waterline,
Where he doubled back and found some new wonder in the faded darkness
beneath the pines.
Stumps were lain side by side,
A lattice ready to board, or a fence yearning to rise.
A bridge too, trapezoidal and off-kiltered, sanded wooden and brown,
Crossed over a small patch of green, replacing some stream in the mind´s eye.
He walked in-between the planks and sat on a white face-
A plastic piece, an artists´ final project for school
No doubt, near the bold lava lumps
Peeking from beneath the gray-green moss.
Finally he settled down to wonder. staring at nothing in particular,
At all the in-betweeness he lived and witnessed.
Resting besides his holy halfway
Shedding waves of sighs
Between intermittent sobs of