Though a man whom sorrow named his friend sat

Silent on the edge of earth in sad pain,

Where the seashell refused to hear his tale,

After the dewdrops ignored his lament,

He was reminded by the inarticulate                                                                                                  

Mist splashing the beard on his face that he

Could feel, and no matter if nature cared

Not about the plight his hands and feet dug

Hard through. The sea and woods were not his home—

The pasture’s his domain, the flocks his peace.                                                                                 

At once the friend of sorrow knelt down to

Rinse his face of sweat from walking so far

From where he’s meant to breathe, pray, sleep, & expand.

The finite grazing pasture tired him once,

But a passion rekindled brain with heart—                                                                                       

 At once he felt so far from home, and fled

Back through valley and chaparral as fast

As he could count the sheep unfed; neglect

Swarmed heavy on his mind. The grass grew tall

And his heart pumped warmth, for his void grew full:                                                                      

The thought of grazing sheep all day quieted

The sorrowful sparrow within his soul.

The shepherd’s niche is with his flocks and fields:

The fisherman, his boat, his waves, his sails.

Lamenting his work no more, the shepherd grew                                                                               

Confident in his ability to

Speak with what portion of nature spoke his

Mind to peace and not into fear. He felt,

At last, humbled and tired as he reached home—

Content with the wee portion called his own.                                                                                   

 

--Jade Flamenco