Let me go into the mountain’s depths away from the light. The sky holds nothing. Neither does the sea. Only the rock, the granite, the depths of mountain provides for me. The mountain carries me down and away, away from this light, protecting all it covers as I cover myself with my grandfather’s coal dust. I will carry this canary with me, if you think I must, as I travel deeper, ever deeper, into the mountain.
Morning drifts away with chores I assign myself: The must do, the needs to be done— An endless list to fill a notepad next to the calendar: Feed the dogs, Clean and fill the hummingbird feeders, Change the sheets, Do the ironing, Neatly fold the sheets from the dryer so they align perfectly on the shelf in the closet-- Leave no time to think. Even less time to feel. Keep all thoughts, All feelings at bay. Use the list like a whip and a chair. Let no old cliché hold any sway. Whip the old “nothing ventured, nothing gained” into a new pose of Nothing ventured, nothing lost upon the circus stand, a much easier creature to manage this way.
Winter exists in this quiet realm: The place of spring dreams where from rich loam colors emerge vibrant, as if hope, become a virgin, offered her hand to lessen Winter’s ache enough the wounded reach to touch without wounding in the trying.
A few minutes every day, at times, stretching into hours, I write to you in this book, writing words whispering mysteries of the winds in the mountains. At times, my words still, shifting, settling then sighing as moonstone white clouds rest, caressing the tops of mountains. I have burned hundreds of ink filled books over these many years when disgusted with the imperfection of my scribbled pages. The heat of their fires never offered much warmth. Now, I save my scribble filled books though you may never see them. Forty-five years, I have written words to you, yet you never knew, and neither did I until this moment.
This is an older poem that I’ve dusted off and changed around a little. The end is entirely new but in keeping with the hike in Colorado that inspired it. I was so struck by seeing the one tree leaning upon the other I did not think to whip out my phone to take a picture of the sight. In that moment of observation of the trees, it seemed a violation to do so.
In the woods two trees stand, equally rooted, firmly in the ground. Yet, as if deciding it a curse of solitude to try and touch a Sky who never reached back, one turned to touch the other, leaning its trunk against its forest mate’s. And so, I found them, standing as lovers, one resting upon the other, limbs entwined in embrace. I lowered my head out of respect mingled with a bit of embarrassment at glimpsing their beautiful intimacy. I turned, walked down the trail, crunching dried leaves beneath the fall of my heavy boots as I continued on among the trees in silence and solitude.
As if you erupted
from an eternal spring,
an immortal thing,
I gave you away
when last I prayed
here at Chimayo.
When kneeling
I scooped the healing dirt
as I spoke silent prayers of thanks
for my heart bravely facing
shocks of resuscitation
after years spent
barely beating
in stuttering grief.
Upon return today,
I kneel to scoop
the healing dirt,
asking in silent prayer
a blessing of forgiveness
for giving you away
too easily—
thus, killing you,
bleeding you of all hope,
beyond resurrection,
beyond resuscitation.
In the dirt of Chimayo,
this healing earth,
from this place of faith,
sifted through my hands,
I bury you, a mortal thing,
I gave away too easily
to an undeserving faith,
in this dirt of Chimayo.
days spinning faster
now toward twilight it seems
hours before dawn
years ago hours
lived, died, born again screaming
before twilight’s edge
watch the dawn hours
spin, dizzy and drunk with years,
into twilight’s grave
Bandaged, gauze covered, blanketed--
now--
She never thought of bandages
until one wound oozed infection,
a malevolent fluid.
Thus, she learned of cleansing wounds,
bandaging them for protection,
changing dressings.
Twice, she thought her wound healed, scarred over,
rejoicing, removed her bandage.
Twice, her scar split open, infection returning.
Resigned, resolving to keep her bandage always,
Refreshed daily, keeping infection at bay.
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/category/weekend-writing-prompt/
Caught in the evening downpour, I am washed clean of summer. Summer’s red rock, red dirt dreams Sluiced from me with this autumnal drenching. Morning greets me with a cool hand Of sunshine upon my brow. Autumn whispers of a harvest Under skies of bluest topaz. A clear, clean, honest reaping In days yet to be had.
Haunting seen In darkening clouds Of chrysalis dreams Where wanting, Where desiring, Haunt seen Cease existing-- In this capturing No ring pierced through Butterfly wings Dripping still From newly emerging Dreams not tended.
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