Somewhere between Goat Rock
and my small, green, kitchen in Brooklyn,
New York, I have found the same length
of green string wrapped around the cover
of a book on my bookshelf that I played with on
the Sonoma Coast cliffs. I don’t remember
where I found the string, or why I played
with it outside staring out to imagined whales,
but I do remember putting it in my pocket
and driving home. It’s just a string,
it does not wrap me to anything.
It is not a lock of hair or an umbilical or
a power cord. It is essentially trash.
But what binds us together is not of
any monetary worth, isn’t that the case?
What we find moves us the most is free,
uncompromising in its grounded ness.
Everyone says, “It is the thought that
counts.” And I agree, but sometimes it
is also the small tokens of a time, some
tangible thing that does not die, some
small useless item that brings two coasts,
a book, and body together. How small
a simple string has to be to tie us, completely,
to the world.