After “The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry
Living in town, far from wood drake
and heron, where can I go
in the middle of the night to seek
the peace of wild things?
Could I lie down in the cushiony redwood mulch
in my backyard,
never mind the bits of bark that will later cling
to hair and clothes?
Wouldn’t the crickets make room for me
and the bats pass over
as if I were a fallen tree?
Plants and trees have sleep cycles too;
vines are resting from their labors
growing squash, ripening tomatoes,
popping out passion flowers.
Why shouldn’t I?
My own garden,
traversed by possums and raccoons,
presided over by moon and stars,
is wild enough.
There is no tonic like going outdoors.
No bed or chaise lounge can take the place
of the earth beneath my body,
yet no matter the clothes and comforts
I cushion it with, this body
hosts a feral universe; it has
rhythms and demands beyond my ken and control.
When fear stalks in the night
to rob me of rest, let my soul
return to my body, let me remember
that I too am a wild thing.
The Kingdom of Enough 