In My Tribe

In my tribe we prefer the touch of

Mother Earth on our bare feet to the

shackles of shoes or straight jacket socks.

In my tribe we eat simply beneath the clouds

bread in one hand, cheese in the other,

a bottle of wine between our knees.

In my tribe days are thirty hours long,

not because we wish to be more productive

but so we may ponder all we chose to ignore

with our backs against a worn tree trunk,

our eyes lost in some distant clump of cat tails,

drumming fingers keeping time with the sparrows.

In my tribe everything is precious,

gathered and kept with five year old glee

including the autumn sheddings of trees

which we cup and cast over the water's edge,

not out of remembrance or thanks but

simply because we wish to.