I am bread of many directions.
The fir and palm are together in me
and I am at home where oceans course
or in the still of a desert pool.
The mountain goat has seen my eye
and the lion in the sea.
The prairie dog has whistled my whereabouts
and the antelope has shown me his flag.
Black bears have begrudged their berry patch
the osprey has paid me passing heed.
Orca has tolerated my silent admiration
the eagle has kept the question of his distance.
A black wolf once let me see him full
like the moon behind a drifting cloud
and I never forgot the message left
like crumbs when a feast is old.
The stench of ruined forests repels me north at first
then firms resolve of one direction more to take
as I add dimension to my outlook.
To the south, the breath of earth now comes in gasps
as I rush to effect my simple healing.
West and east the ravished waters go silently.
Again the rush, but not alone to mend this time.
Others to compass too are bread, like me.
My texture is rich in nourishment.
My form is crusted in the heat of years.
I am the bread of many directions.
I feed the world even as my yeast is working.
You have but to come to my table.
(Gone to Gossamer)