To Be a Mystic

My younger self thought

That the secrets to the universe

Were hidden knowledge

Locked away

In old, dusty tomes

If only I could read enough books

The right books

I thought

I’d know just how

To be

But it’s exactly in the

Being

Where the wisdom lies

Not always in the reading

In the doing

In the noticing

In the listening

In the peeling bark of birch trees

In the radiance of the sun

In the softness of a blanket of ferns

Lit up by white sunlight

That is where

The secrets are found

If only

I could put my phone away

For longer than ten seconds

But these poems

Demand to be birthed

In this place of crickets and quiet

With a warm summer breeze

And green

Green everywhere

It’s getting harder and harder

To be a mystic

These days