Tribe

Standing at the edge

Of this deck in the forest –

One small cabin at the end

Of a long dirt road –

I look up at the moon

Splintered by the slowly

Swaying calligraphy

Of new trees,

And lost to my dreaming

Catch myself thinking –

Where is my tribe,

Where are the old men

Standing with me at the edge

Of their lives, pissing,

Looking up, startled

Once more by this pale

And flirtatious circle

Of light

Still longing?

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Jonathan Blake has been following the gospel of his heart for his entire life. Writer, educator, arts organizer, he makes his home in central Massachusetts.

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