Standing before wrinkled and weeping crags
Of our grandmother madonna mountains,
I grasp the dullness of my senses.
I have been raised deaf to this language,
limited by the ravished chaos of young city verdance.
All is soulless through these untrained eyes --
The shocking colors remind me of manmade models,
Not the higher forms first built,
Til the very hearts that pound around me seem
That they could be dissected and resurrected by man, too.
Take me back to when river rocks held conversation
With salmon and it was my daily blessing to overhear.
When the campfire's strength gave us a nightly ritual of humility,
And the unseen mover was on the forefront of our minds.
Was there such a time?
What sort of meditation can come from a newly mowed lawn?
While ancient trees stand in distant valleys,
Waiting to shock my senses by their infinite stature
Making obvious my infinite fraility.
And yet, even here, away from virgin woods
My teacher speaks, or rather points,
To the miniscule, white-petaled and delicate
Blossoms, hidden like golden refugees amongst the tattered blades
Twixt my restless ankles.
It is here that I hear your name being shouted.
Among the muted field of withered grass,
The resilient, yet quiet, beckoning pervades.
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