Wilderness Wonder

I call San Saba the "wilderness" because we drive forever down a gravel road, and the chance of a snake encounter is high. Plus the cows keep staring at me. It's far more fun to exaggerate, and I can imagine pioneers on horseback plucking cactus needles from body parts and cursing.

National Poetry Month is almost over, but it's been amusing to match pictures and words. I have not included my own poetry. If it's published on a blog, then most journals consider it "previously published" and will not accept it. Thus, you've expanded your mind here with others' words.

For one that comes into the wilderness with a pencil to sketch or sing, a thousand come with an ax or rifle - Henry David Thoreau

The Morning is Full - Pablo Neruda

The morning is full of storm

in the heart of summer

The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of good bye,

the wind, traveling, waving them in its hands

The numberless heart of the wind

beating above our loving silence

Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees

like a language full of wars and songs

Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid

and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds

Wind that topples her in a wave without spray

and substance without weight, and leaning fires

Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks

assailed in the door of the summer's wind