rivers cut deep through mountain and memory oregon skies stretch wide — vast with promise birds bring sunrise with their morning song
keeping watch — forests stand ever vigilant in every branch — safe refuge for fur’n’fowl stoney coast of cliffs and coves rises majestic trees bend in defiance — but do not surrender
nature doesn’t just survive — it boldly thrives every season teaches its lesson without apology roots run deep in this wonderful wild wonderland
There was a mason in County Kerry who trusted the nature of stone, believing it settled where it meant to, given patience and a steady hand. He had built walls that held against wind, rain, and the slow persuasion of time, and he took a quiet pride in their staying.
Yet one piece refused him—not boldly, not enough to accuse—but by the smallest measure, a drift no eye could ignore once seen. It was a modest stone, unremarkable in shape or color, the sort a man might place without a second thought.
Each morning it had shifted, as if leaning in the night toward some older intention buried beneath the field. No mark of hand or weather explained it. Only that it would not quite agree.
He marked it with chalk, then scored it lightly with his chisel, thinking to catch it in the act of moving or prove himself mistaken. But the marks remained, and still the stone took its quiet liberty.
At times he thought to remove it altogether, yet something in him resisted, as though the wall itself would notice the absence. So he turned it, set it deeper, pressed it firm with all the knowledge he possessed. Still, by morning, it had chosen otherwise.
At last he left it as it lay, a flaw by craft, but a truth of another kind. And though the wall stood clean and certain to all who passed, he alone felt a hesitation in it—like a sentence that had been spoken correctly, but not honestly.
Years later, when the land was measured again and older boundaries brought to light, it was found that the wall held true in every place but one. And there, just slightly out of line, the stone had kept its own counsel all along. It had been the coner stone for the old wall…
§
…there’s a line that no mason can see
though he measures as true as can be
for the stone set askew
knows a boundary more true—
so rests where it’s chosen to be
The therapies worked. Cells renewed themselves. Organs regenerated. Memory backups lived in quiet servers beneath mountains. People stopped dying the way people once had. Time stretched outward like an endless road disappearing into desert heat.
But Elias had begun to notice something. Immortality did not feel like forever. It felt like waiting. Waiting for meaning. Waiting for the next century to feel different from the last.
He walked every morning along the ocean, watching waves repeat their ancient labor. The tide did not worry about forever. It simply arrived. Children still played in the surf, shrieking at cold water. Lovers still leaned against the railing, speaking softly as dusk gathered.
Life, he realized, had not changed. Only the fear disapated. The great human project had been to defeat ‘scary’ death. But no one had solved the quieter problem that followed. What to do with eternity.
Perhaps forever had never been the point. Perhaps the secret was what the waves had always known: that living—truly living—was not about escaping the end. It was about filling the moment so completely that forever was no longer required. He always thought eternity was the sacred goal. What fools we humans have been
Elias picked up his journal and began writing. “Happiness — it all belies our existence; we wait, and are still denied.”
<~>
There can be moments of joy, even exhilaration. But a true, deep, ever abiding happiness — we aren’t wired that way. All the science in this mortal world won’t change that. Go instead, for peace of mind!
somewhere
in the journals of life
a number was written—
was written beside my name—
a quiet prediction
made by statisticians
and the calendars of time—
my shelf life
seventy seven years…
seventy eight—
seventy nine perhaps
a tidy place for me
to fold my map—
leave—
and they close my door
but…
my door never closed—
well — never stayed closed…
instead
it reopened—
I stepped through
walking on
beneath fluorescent skies—
my breath again moving
in and out—
so I move on—
beyond my use by date
…day after day
…week after week
…month after month
…now a couple years passed by
I missed the announcement
to please exit quietly—
so I remain—
making my way…
like an old dog
that refuses to leave the porch
now
like an old dog
my bones complain
like old wood in winter
my stomach grumbles—
flatulence has become
an annoying friend
fatigue drapes itself
over my afternoons
the earth’s begun to wobble a bit
so I watch my steps—
which are fewer now
the sun still rises
with stubborn ceremony
clouds drift the same
as they did when I was twenty—
wind still moves
through the branches
high in the trees…
as if practicing nature’s musical—
birthday candles still sell—
I just sit here
wondering—
not why pain exists…
not why time carries on…
not about its heavy gravity…
not about angels on pinheads…
but why
my small flame of breath
still leans toward tomorrow
no answer arrives
only morning after morning
opening its quiet hand—
placing another hour in mine
as if it had always meant to
I feel my road should have ended—
I now travel borrowed miles
I suspect
there was once a ledger somewhere—
a neat column of years
of miles
allotted to me—
my expiration date
a careful estimate
drawn up by invisible clerks
of probability
that column must’ve ended—
but my road
has not
it keeps stretching forward—
through ordinary days…
through their fluctuating length…
through season upon season…
through rain tapping upon the roof…
through the soft blue television light
of insomnia’s midnights
my body still carries
a caravan of complaints—
bones creak—
my recall is at times
a lost distracted child—
energy wanders off
like a tired guest
still
my heart—
that stubborn drummer—
continues its slow dirge…
sometimes in irregular rhythm
inside its quiet cavern of ribs
I walk unsteadily
very carefully now
through each morning
the air tastes the same
as it did in younger seasons—
cold…
bright…
intoxicating
birds continue crossing the sky
without consulting any statistics
light spills through windows
flooding across my floor
day after day—
increasing and decreasing
with extravagant generosity—
time continues
upon its relentless way—
but I realize
these extra miles I enjoy
are not owed to me—
they are only
borrowed distance—
in borrowed time
unexpected road…
beyond the place
where my map was meant to end—
where my journal was meant to close
so I move on—
…gently
…gratefully
…awkwardly
…and most curious—
like every human
who has ever
walked this beautiful earth—
wondering
—just how far
my road ahead
is willing to stretch—
how far the horizon
is willing
to keep stepping back— …when does my journal finally close?
the veins of powerful
fresh rivers thread
through my vital wilderness—
the mountains and forests
my pure wild waters
rush like red blood
through green arteries
rapids quickening
the steady beat
of my strong heart
powerful waterfalls
spill like silver breath
from my lips
crisp lakes lie deep
as quiet chambers
of a living chest
see here my fir and birch—
proud sentinels
of the rivers and streams
for ages I have nurtured
the the life giving elements
of clean rain…
fresh snowmelt…
and I have breathed
unsullied winds
then you arrived—
thin of spirit…
tired of lungs…
after long decades
among the gray arteries
of cities run rampant
you came from lands
where the pulse had weakened—
where fields and streams
once healthy and breathing…
…now wheezed beneath concrete
…now choked on industrialization
…now strangled by the grip
of over population
I felt the fatigue
inside your bones—
the slow dimming
of a spent human tide—
so I opened my wilderness to you
which you eagerly embraced
like a flagging body
welcoming oxygenation
from new blood
and my rivers entered you
like bright transfusion—
their cold clean currents
reawakened your dreams
clear waterfalls revived
your world weary heart
you drank from my mountains’
moving lifeblood—
your spirit responded
to my welcoming call
now your breath carries
the scent of fir and birch…
salt ocean air…
and intoxicating petrichor
your pulse echoes the rhythms
of my wild nature’s drums
I am the freedom of that wild
I am the power of rushing water
I am the energy of the winds
then the earth itself
might begin to shine differently
its cities bright
not with power—
but with understanding
with knowledge
yet…
if we reached such a moment
how would we guard it
peace cannot truly be locked
inside treaties
it survives only
when those inner lights
P
are tended daily—
when people remember
how easily darkness grows
in neglected corner
even in that careful world
adversaries would linger.
not a nations
not an ideologies—
something older
the restless appetite
that sometimes rises
in the human spirit—
…the desire to possess
…to dominate
…to believe one’s own story
is the center of the earth—
and even then
one truly critical danger would remain—
…not an army
…not a border
…not a cult or ism
only the old shadows
waiting in the human mind—
…envy
…fear
…the hunger for power—
…for more—
resentful covet
restless winds
chaotic winds
winds capable of
extinguishing the small lights
we carry within us
so a peaceful planet
would never be
a finished work—
impossible
Original DDE™ art: “Sky Ship” — by: rob kistner © 3/23/26
Original DDE™ art: ”Sky Ship II” by: rob kistner © 3/23/26
Original DDE™ art: “Untamed” — by: rob kistner © 3/21/26
Original DDE™ art: “I Wonder…” — by: rob kistner © 3/6/26.
