Sometimes,

when driving with old music under slated smoke
against the brushstroked horizon
fading along mountains to the west
as the sun-heat of the high desert
reflecting off the scent of sagebrush
gives way to a chill mist
collecting on burnished sandstone and granite
with small patches of veridian moss and lichen
in the wild geometry of a late afternoon
as amber light stretches out into a blanket
under which nothing can harm us

(not even the future
not even the past

[this is a good place to stop
and get out the cameras] ),

our gaze sweeps
the scattered domains of the earth,
of the coyote and the elk
and a railroad track not used in years;

soon,
we will start thinking of good food
and something cool to drink.

Shell Canyon | Wyoming | USA

Geology

Your skin is of alabaster,
and your heart, rose quartz.

Your mind is diamond.
Your hair flows down like tiger’s eye.

And residing within granitic bones
of cooled lava,
your soul is formed
of topaz and citrine;

your eyes of obsidian,
of dragon’s blood,
of labradorite.

And your mouth
speaks in rivers
and your touch
laps as waves on the shore
and your dreams
are snow gathering on the high peaks;

for you were forged in stars,
and born of fire,
and a wonder,

never simply on display;

but forever that of beauty,
wild in the earth.

Before Dawn

Gently now,
as I draw you in the core of my mind.

Softly now,
as your soul sings
in the depths of the dark.

Sweetly now,
as we drink
deep from the overflowing cup.

The ceiling fan spins light kaleidoscopic
in the late evening,
and the sheets smell like you,
and my shirt is scented
with dust and musk,
and we trace each other’s tattoos
and taste of each other’s wine
and speak our stories into the air.

So
lightly,
as my fingers brush
the back
of your neck.

Elegantly,
as your hand rests
upon the rising of my
chest.

Slowly,
as thunderclouds growl and gather
in the distance.

The hours after midnight
are only for the nameless,
the forgotten,
the secrets,
the lovers,
the ascendant.

Carefully now,
as I carve your name
into the side of my heart.

Theory

What makes a wild heart beat?

(no, i mean really beat)

Does it fly full-out and free
under the sun?
Does it hide and whisper
its dreamings in the dark?
Does it drift
in fitful slumber beneath the sea?

What voices, still, are carried on the horizon’s wind?

Where do they go?

And why,
why is all this insanity
very much like a coming home?

(does it even matter?)

Here,
I’ll tell you a secret:

I have no idea.

But I think it’s very close

to whatever makes a horse
dig its hooves hard into the ground,
playing with the earth
at the scent of rain,
throwing out ripened patches
of green grass
to an evening blanket-sky
burgeoned with pillars of midnight
as the final spears of sunlight
slip past the edges of thunderwaves
forged in hearts of lightning.

artist: https://www.deviantart.com/temiree/art/Rising-Thunder-606707595

Grace Note

It is a simple thing,
really,

but I have decided
that I miss your voice;
or perhaps
the presence of your voice;
or, I think,
simply the suggestion
of the possibility
that your voice
might be spoken.

I think I miss you,
in fact,
as one might miss a piano
that used to sit
in the living room
near the highest window-

waiting to sing the old songs

as sunlight slips softly
through the glass,

or snow piles silently
upon the pane.

Winterlight

Out of the valley of shadow
and into the arms
of fire and of ice-
see now the horizon line
burning
over the frozen teeth
of the mountains.

See now breath
coalescing into fog,
See now ice start to drip
off of branch and rock;
and listen to the wind…
only listen.

What do you hear?

Such it is with emergence,
with voyage,
with survival
and with salvation.

Such it is
with winter and sunlight.

Weathered Sign at the Mouth of the River Cave

_______________
WEARY TRAVELER

If you’re reading this,
then please,
sit
and rest awhile.

Before entering,
be aware that

in spite of
[__________]
you’re actually
a very good individual,

regardless of
[__________]
you are forgiven
and are loved by numerous people,

and that even
[__________]
will not defeat you;
though it will try.

If anyone or anything tries to
[__________]
you, or
[__________]
for you,
recall the following:
– you are forged from stars
– you are made from oceans
– you are composed from music.

If you ever get lost,
refer to your map;
in time you will attain
[__________]
and
[__________].

So sit,
and rest awhile-
ye have come already so far
and into the dark beyond
ye must now go.

Listen- can you hear it calling?

Remember now, Traveler-
blade sharp,
torch dry,
eyes up.

faa08d0f8e0fa1ead7584444d22f6f0b
artist credit requested

Entanglement

The chords of sunset fall to the earth
and drift ever lightly,
flowing through warmth of a summer
to fade down low-key in the electric descent of the night,

where your touch
is the ghost of the last solstice;
your voice,
the thunder of the preceding equinox,
and the kinetic energy
of angels all fallen to perfection;
where your soul
is a roaring and territorial
song of the solar aurescent…

and your heart-

your heart, seeking in the wilds of humanity
a home that was here, ever-present.

Staring down the slowly-racing horizon,
breathing in the dusklight,
lungs filling deep with the dust of dead suns,

one silent prayer,
one lone evocation into the dark defiant, my dear:

may, one day,
you deny your god
before the crowing of the next sunrise

by daring to look up as you once did-
to watch the stars.

falling_star_by_snatti89-dc392e7
artist: https://deviantart.com/snatti89