To Fencepost

It knew my breath
and knew my cheek.
It was yesterday,

a long time ago,
when I stood alone
next to any old fencepost

and waited before I knew
I was beginning
a practice of listening to what stands still

a long time.
Today, standing anyplace,
that yearning might come

for a way in
to where fenceposts stay without ceasing,
each one a priest of stillness.

Any day this is so––
on a hillside where wind trembles the grass
stands a quiet gray weathered post,

crust of golden lichen
glowing
on the shadowed side.