Just three feet off the path,
                A Ruddy Dadderwing land and flit
                On a storm-felled, dry rotted cypress branch,
                Or an ivory millipede soft-scrunch,
                Over a patch of bared  and sandy soil,            
                Or a White-breasted Nuthatch’s nest,
                Formed of holly twigs and Spanish moss,
                A snake slither overfoot,
                A tailless lizard scamper,
                Deer tracks,
                Duck dung,
                Life.

Just three feet off the path,
                An aged homeless man up close,
                His fetid breath formed on pained whispers,
                Or a shopkeeper opening doors,
                Or just-ripe peaches piled high,
                Or vibrant, cut Crinum Lily buds
                Waiting for vases by foyer divans,
                Stacks of damp newspapers,
                Kids fallen from bicycles,
                Gardens,
                Litter,
                Life.

                Off the sidewalk or the trail,
                Just a hop—a lunge—away from civil safety,
                (Nevermind roads less traveled,
                Nevermind trailblazing the cosmos):
                Disrupt with steps from trodden ways,
                In claiming others’ nearness—
                In staking out the parallel—
                In stalking periphery:
                                                Walk in mud; dirty shoes.
                                               Shake branches; callous hands,
                                                Feed hungry; taste need,
                                                Drop dollars intentionally.
                                                Stand in traffic,
                                                Stack garbage,
                                                Smudge mirrors,
                                                Strip naked,
                                                Sully nests,           
                                                Scream,
                                                Stop.
                Re-path,
                Then see
                Life.       

Third Half

There was me,
And there was you.

                There was me and I was whole.
Before there was us,
                I did not need for anything or anyone.
Before there was us,
                I was sated and filled.
Before there was us,
                There was me and there was you:
                                Two perfect halves.
Before there was us,
                I did not know I required you.

Valent, hungry Hydrogen
And Oxygen-formed.

                And together, made a whole.
                And we did not need for anything or anyone.
Then there was us,
                And we were sated and filled.
                And there was you-and-me:
                                A Perfect-Perfect.
Then there was us,
                And we knew we were essential.
 
Our waters swirled and merged:
Splashing, waving, vesseled,
And completed.
 
And now,
                We are more than whole,
                We are exponential.
                We are more than companions.
And now,
                We are everything and everyone,
                We are more than fulfilled,
                We are drunk and fatted.
And now,
                We are more than a clan:
                                We are Third Half.
                We are more than co-vital,
                We are a utopian megalopolis.
And now we are luxuriant,
                                copious,
                                                excessive,
                                                                diluvian.

Swollen beyond our banks:
Uncontained and overflowing,
Bursting, tsunami’d.

And, I love
us.

Unbounded

Eighty two thousand three hundred hands,
Raised high and sky-chopping,
Cutting the Tallahassee wind—
Seminole Wind—together.

Eighty two thousand three hundred voices,
Chanting, battle-ready,
Summoning Osceola’s force:
Triumphant breath, together.

Eighty two thousand three hundred minds,
Shaped, molded and made strong,
Forged in chieftains’ glowing wisdom,
Spreading brilliance, together.

Eighty two thousand three hundred heroes,
Bowdens, Wards and Stroziers,
Sligers, us, and our progeny:
Legacies bound, together.

Eighty two thousand three hundred souls,
Climbing among fallen
Brothers and fathers, buoyantly
Rise still higher, together.

Eighty two thousand three hundred warriors,
Victories shared—wrought spoils—
Doak’s village of millions rumbles:
Unconquered land, together.

Eighty two thousand three hundred,
          Champions,
On sacred battlegrounds,
Unbounded by cosmic frontiers:
Seminole Nation, together.