I Stand

I stand on the path.

I stand on the path and notice the land beneath me.

I stand and become aware of the earth that bears my weight and  

I stand and watch how my boots dig deep and leave their mark.

I stand and bear witness to the multitude who have walked before and

I stand and feel how hardened this earth, this patch of land has become. I stand.

What is my right
to tread on this land, this home

to beings of millenniums past: the ants,

the spiders and centipedes; the bears, the deer,

the squirrels and birds. What is my right

to the land on which I stride

where mushrooms and moss, tree and flower

have spread their roots and sown their seeds? 
What is my right?

I stand in stillness.

I stand and listen.

I want to know.

I want you to tell me, dear Earth,
how is it for you?
How do you stand

for trespasses of boots and shoes of

hardened soles? Of woven stories and causes told

of rights and passages, discoveries and conquest,

of who owns what and what flag to fly, of
fences and walls and mines and roads and
growth, of course, by all means
growth. How is it

for you?

In silence I stand.

In silence I wait.

In silence I listen.

And the earth says

take off your shoes.

I stand, bare feet

upon the earth naked

my soul embraced.

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