For three years, I have written poems on this land (here).
With empty hands and busy hands.
Occasionally people read them.
                        They say there is a mountain,
                        by the sea of stars and other satellites,
                        under the fortress-cloud, river-aurora sky.
                        Go and climb and swim (Everything).
My poems constantly, every single time,
fall into the season, its particular way.  
They are all (poems, seasons, time) circles with two faces; copper pennies.
                        If you can find the mountain, 
                        you can rest, in the one-place.
                        Everything that’s happened / will ever happen,
                        becomes at once, written across you (Everything).
That’s working with your hands.
That’s an iron (golden), chilly (hazy) day.
That’s more kale than any fella could ever eat alone.
                        With everything about you,
                        where do your eyes linger?   
                        Can you tell me?                    
                        Do you still seek when you could be anything (Everything)? 
Share it: that’s all there is to do.
Join hands: walk proudly along the longest squash rows.
This is a good (special) place and good (special) work. 
                                                Maybe this Winter. Or next Spring.

~Solomon