We've hiked an hour, Just stopped to rest among Timber cut long ago Piled on soft ground Littered with bits of bark. Each log lopped flat, Equal in length though Different in girth, Smelled of old pin And grayed by time. Criss-crossed on each other Like a game of pick-up Sticks all colored the same, But we're too young to play A game made for old giants. So we sit on one to rest Our weary feet Nestled in rain boots stiff And colored, A little too big for Our little ankles. I hide my face with A camera showing only Knotty locks of hair. My brother sits staring Inquisitively, hair lifted in The light cool breeze Which I feel on my knees Of warn out jeans From hard play, My gray sleeves keep The cold away. What is he thinking Arms crossed looking out? Does he hear the silence, Feel the wood surround about, Or just waiting to move To the end?
Love the simplicity and minimalism in this poem! My favorite one so far! The word picture of a giant’s pick-up-sticks was delightful, showing an imaginative playfulness through your focused attentiveness in Visio Divina.