by Marcel Toussaint
Walking the field,
passing through the woods
I need to find a place to sit
to take a big breath
recover for a longer journey
to reach the cottage
where the hearth is lit,
where smoke rises
over the chimney,
where a hot soup
will warm my insides.
I find a low stone
so large that it has been there
centuries, that no one has ever
moved. I imagine the travelers
of years past doing as I do.
In spots the surface is polished
by an ever present need to sit.
They sat taken by the landscape
the hills, trees, valleys, a river gushing
over rocks and sand wanting the sea.
I sense their presence, I join their spirits.