She Apologized For Being Weird

She married an engineer
into a family of engineers
and they all speak their own language,
the language of engineers,
clipped, precise, direct,
stepping in straight lines,
and in curves just as precise,
defined and tangible, and
they think her weird.
She apologizes for being weird.

She loves the chaos and confusion
of nature, life’s proliferation and profusion
its complex competition for resource,
its preoccupation with procreation,
its capacity for cooperation and
colonization, its resilience in adversity,
its spontaneity and its beauty,
where there are no straight lines,
no firm calculations
no all encompassing equations
that will define behavior
in neat parallel lines,
tidy predictable columns
that define, determine, box, dissect, split, classify,
manipulate and recreate the world in rational and
predictable forms—
She apologizes for being weird.

They find it weird
that she glows ecstatic
at the sight of a flower
with tiny petals, blue and delicate
emerging from the debris of winter
the lonely call of the loon;
the yellow flash of a warbler
flitting in a tree, its feathers so delicate;
the leaves trees fresh, bright green and shiny;
the fresh perfumed smell of Spring
the autumn aroma of rotting leaves
the musk of fox, the rustle of rabbit
the still disguise of possum
the scatter of chipmunks
the sweet erotic songs of birds
the rhythmic tapping of woodpeckers
the demonic energy of ants
even the slither of snake.

She loves the feel of mud in a pond,
that creative, dynamic squishy soil
filled with life, her excitement in finding
a furtive frog, a crustacean crawling,
a clam buried, even a worm.
She apologizes for being weird.

She loves to leave
the roads, rails and concrete
and enter a world where
modern man is a visitor
and listen to the silence—
gradually she hears the
sounds of the natural world
the cries, calls, coots,
whistles, songs and rustles of unseen life
the discovery of the unexpected—
life emerging out of decay
a fallen tree sprouting fresh leaves
its bark home to beetles burying
into rotting wood; the play of light
filtering through the canopy of growth
the scent of flowers, fruits, leaves, molds and mud— all her senses absorbing the life surrounding
the remnants of Eden
where prayer is superfluous.
She apologizes for being weird
smiling, her face glowing.

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Copyright 2017© by Peter D. Goodwin