Texture

The numbness and ache in toes 
while legs are going up and down
and the landscape
passes by silently.

Unmistakably knowing that this
is what I am, and where I am:
Cycling through the freezing polders of Holland,
 the horizon an orange gold.

The sky so vast 
and close
as to be One thing,
indistinguishable
from what I am and
where I am.

Looking after my ailing mother while
siblings are needling me to do this or that.
Trying to control and program what I am doing.
Knowing and perceiving that what I am is 
freedom itself, cannot ever be controlled,
yet feeling at the same time myself 
as the whole situation.

There is never a me apart from all of this Life.

Everything experienced without filters.
The taste and texture of Dutch life.
The sweet frailty of my mother.
Family and neighbors visits.
Endless stories telling of their 
concerns, pains and struggles.
And the body adjusting to the differences 
of temperature, timezone and nourishment.

Never a me separate from
what I am and where I am.