You can pay attention and still trip on tree roots and fall. You can grow
colder. You can be led into the wilderness and lug a pack
of things you don’t need. You can lose your way. You can find
yourself sustained. All day you can complain and at night gaze
at a million stars. Both legs can ache. You can hope this is worth it
but doubt it.
You can imagine what everyone at home is doing.
You can be comforted. You can remain inconsolable. Before you go
you can locate the wilderness on a map, drive there, park the car,
stroll in and out in thirty minutes dreaming
of escape routes. You can confuse boundaries and stumble
from one wilderness to the next. You can be tempted
in the wilderness. You can wonder what the point is.
Four minutes can feel like forty years. You can be sure
you cannot carry this much weight for that much longer. Unexpectedly,
a way can be made in the wilderness. A stream can appear
without a bridge. You can cross on a high log, look back
and feel strong. You can weaken. It can rain. Lightning can strike,
a fire start, angels can surprise you. So can snakes and bears.
You can crave pizza and receive manna. You can drop the wine.
You can get into trouble, forget to bring a whistle, shout for help
and no one will answer. Why not give up? You can trust.
You can lack trust. You can nap and hope, stand or kneel.
You can wait. In the wilderness you can hear someone coming.