The Thought of Something else, by Wendell Berry

A fall wind blowing the smell of the sea

through the intersections of traffic,

The mind turns, seeks a new nativity-another place,

Simpler, less weighted by what has already been.

Another place!

It’s enough to grieve-that old dream of going, of becoming better

just by getting up and going to a better place.

The mystery. The old unaccountable unfolding.

The iron trees in the part suddenly remember forests.

It becomes possible to think of going.

A place where thought can take its shape.

As quietly in the mind as water in a pitcher,

or a man can be safely without thought-see the day begin and lean back,

a simple wakefulness filling perfectly the spaces among the leaves.