"The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing —
to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from —
my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing,
all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back."


~C.S. Lewis




Friday, May 11, 2012

Pleading sanctuary


Minnesota meadow, late July
Sewn to woods by seams of thought,
Evening splashes her face with moss;
I walk past unmade deer beds.
Alfalfa, dusty with the sunlight
Wades in dry riverbeds of brome—
Asks why I failed
To build a cottage here, with flowers
Slipping to the door.
But gone too long, I’m deaf-blind to family—
Oaks holding red hawks’ hands.
Roaming hallways of perfected air
To Butterfly Point, my childhood room,
I remember monarch clouds
Ten thousand wings—
How heartbreak feels
Blowing through your coat. Adrift
On meadows’ whitecaps,
I hear the muddy rhymes of home
Calling me back, in time for supper:
Moored as unsettled ice
In harbor of stone.


Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Why people rode west



When wondering
Why people rode West,
I ask horses.
For once I knew bright wanderlust,
Tears when sun wove down to flax—
But now I stay, as statues stay:
Sleepwalk.
Yet mustang herds in picture books
Choose godly mud, swim
Through oceaned fog as rivers
Under Utah stars—
So I mount my mare to rise
To fields of blistered sky,
Scale a cliff of glass or grass—
Let September sun trade places
With flickering holocaust of birch:
Fiery life in stirrups with muddy tread,
Nails pushed full of dirt and sand,
Living without permission—awake.