soul's housing

by l. ward abel

Stressed
that’s me.
Obsessed
with what could kill
my arteries or lungs or brain.
This soul’s housing
interferes
with my own serenity.

The house
is not built upon a rock,
won’t withstand
the seasons:
just look at my ancestors,
many if not most
passing away within twenty to twenty-five years
of my present age.

Notwithstanding,
when will I resolve,
become calm? Will it be
this late autumn day
this very one,
cross the threshold
and shed care,
shed my clothes, fears,
baggage and mores
today?

So I go
down Valley-John way,
green from recent unexpected
gentle rains,
lay my bleached body naked down
white in that green.
Infallible now,
shorn like winter-trees and wet
waiting for some spring.

I would imprint
the short grass
with inverted ranges of me
as I recline
linger,
having sought peace
but willing to accept
an imitation
of
peace.

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