|Old Man Hood|
I take me up to Mount Tabor, to the top of the rounded old pate, and I stand by the Julija Laenen bench and pay homage to Old Man Hood. I study him. I try to fathom his intentions. Of course it's hopeless, but I never tire of trying. In winter, he often does not deign to show himself.
On this day, ashes and crow feathers, carefully arranged around the slender bole. My ritual intersects with another's, then. Might it be the witches?
|View from the Edgar Francis Conant park bench|
|In memory of Frank Conant and his dog, Rusty|
In the pride of my youth, I would mock ritual as a crutch for the weak. But years will change perspectives.
Submission is not weakness. Submission is strength. I've come to know that.