The Steps Out Back

The steps out back

Are made of wood.

They lead no where but up and down.

Sometimes I go sit there.

Out there, where no one else is.

While all the rest of the world is somewhere else.

I think about things that puzzle me, intrigue me,

And confuse me.

I think about people I know, people I used to know,

People I’d like to know,

People I will never know.

I sometimes think about what the rest of the world is doing out there,

While I’m sitting here, thinking,


I know magnificent things are being done,

Experiences are creating memories

Even if I’m not part of it all.


On those steps,

I think of the memories that I created.

Or memories I’m going to make.

If it’s early morning when there I sit,

It’s cool and hidden from the sun.

But later if I go out back to sit

The sun, if it’s shining,

Stares directly at me.

Sometimes I sit there and wonder if the rest of the world misses me,

At all.

Other times I sit there

And breathe,

Closing my eyes and soaking in the nothingness being asked of me.

Just today as I sat there and thought-

A bee landed on my foot

I gently whoooshed it away so it wouldn’t take a notion to sting me.

I watched,


As it walked away.

It only walked.  And walked. Never flying.

I fretted I may have harmed it,

But it could have already been flightless and walked on to my foot.

I watched until it walked out of my vision.

Then I sat there.

And thought some more.

Out back.

On the steps.