Sunday, July 13, 2014

To Fate

(On a point called the rest area with no name.)
Come, bury  my fear
within this Salt Wash rock
where yellow flowers rise
from bone and ash -- remains
of a woman
who won daylight
from the creator
and shared her bright
gains with the tribe.
Come, sweep my breath
harried and hopeless
into stone lungs
that smell of rushing water
and pine. Come, let it fade,
seep and settle
into palisades
that shift and shatter
over time -- until
another sculpture
shoves its way
out of the ruin. An overhang.
A prow guarding its field
of tidal grass.
A solid calm.
where the shaken self
has been re-cast
into the wing drift
of mist or white-tailed hawk,
the presence of prayer.

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