Shelter
I don’t know if I know
how to listen to silences so old,
quietude contained within rock
crafted into brick, held in a mortar
of mud and pebbles, bound
in ancient spring water and clay.
Minds speculate:
what must have been, what still is,
the living traditions we struggle to maintain,
how we find and lose meaning,
place and displace our humanness,
forget our belonging on the earth, strive
then and now to survive.
Thunder in the cradle of the canyon.
A few drops of rain land on my cheeks
and on high desert dust.
I let cool wind brush my hair, caress my brow,
let my head rest in the laps of ancient women
who made comfort out of a landscape,
out of their call to nurture life.
I don’t want to know
anything but this stillness,
this moment away from the entire world,
this gap in time.
I could settle here, let exhausted bones
and my burning, broken-down heart
relax into stasis
next to grinding stones
unused now for hundreds of years—
they offer just the hint of the effort it takes
to be well and thrive in this life,
to bear witness to change,
to know ends will come,
stopping points.
Invisibility invites each one of us
into its grace, as graceful
as alcoves of stone in rainstorms,
inside the shelter of awe.
(This poem first appeared in the author's third chapbook, “Illustrious for Brief Moments”, published in February of 2021. Click here for your own copy!)
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