the gentlest thing you can do

by Emma Cohen

Surrender to the gentlest
thing you can do.
 
You you you
don't start with
I'm sorry don't start
by answering someone else's
question: how can you
help me?
 
The gentlest thing you can
do is stay where you
are. If there's a bridge,
you crossed it.
15, 20, 50 miles back.
 
Whoever is there now
fingers clutching the
sturdy wood
whoever is there now
imagining deluded
the bridge ropes fraying
& unraveled the planks
rotten out & snapping
whoever is there now
their journey is
their journey.
 
The gentlest thing you can do
sip from your
dromedary & munch
the sulphurized dehydrated
pineapple cubes
in your trail mix.
The gentlest thing you can do
inhale & exhale
notice your breath & the
terrain around you
whatever it may  be:
redwoods, young mountains,
mulched underforest, eye-high
flaxen prairie, the cottonwood
river, foam ocean --
& continue your journey.
 
If there is a bridge,
you crossed it 3,000 miles
back. Forever days between
there & now
new hiking shoes
worn skirts & shorts
blood & soreness
 
The gentlest thing you can do
love into the weight from
your pack, how it hips
the pebbles & rocks you've
gathered too beside your
half-nibbled clif bar
the prize you're carrying
talisman
zipped in your bag's side pocket.
 
The gentlest thing you can do
set up camp off the main
trails cook your couscous
or tunamac
love into your tent
your sleeping bag
the gentlest thing you can do
forget the bridge -- you crossed it.


Copyright © 2014 by Emma Cohen. Reprinted with permission.