tending to our roots and hitting the wall you built to hide behind

"we were tending to our own few acres
in a space where time was ageless
and never clearer when not distracted
by the distortion of mirrors, we were

uncovering small miracles
all wandering and then
I’m on an island, I said
limbs shooting out in all direction
along the lengths of loops and repetition
inhabiting spaces once clearly defined

mine, but this time crossing the line with
a diminished resistance, to one moment
stretched out as I stood, within myself

and there is something I meant to say
about this, but the words slipped on their way
to my lips, the letters wound around
in limitless combinations, to ride
the tide of an oceanless wave
pouring endlessly into the depths of
wet pages

for the human condition never so
evidenced as when in search
of a guide, to keep going, to step
forward and fall, spiralling
in and in and inward
hitting the wall you built to hide behind
from the compression of time and the pressure
of dwelling anywhere except on the
sidelines, when finally you realize
you’ve been redefined
by nine lives

growing up in the absence of existence
from the remains, one base
with encouragement from the wind
a duration held for deep listening
we were tending to our roots not searching
for an ending, but you can humour me
if you have no will to believe this
or adhere to my incoherent ramblings

i am a witness" 

by Rhonda Baker

Photos by Rhonda Baker