It has taken four days to settle, to draw inward
for a month-long stay at Ghost Ranch, New Mexico
to compose stories…write this life….and
it has taken four whole days, just to begin.
Four days—not to clear the mind, but
to dampen the senses, relieve the quickened pace of
change that happens not in hours, not in minutes
but in moments.
I walk the heart labyrinth for guidance, asking
when and how (?) shall I begin,
for each afternoon brings shape-shifting light
And I cannot look away
from a leaf on sun-baked sandstone, a rattler coiled silently in the portal, multi-hued outcroppings, and shiny stone cliffs.
I wash my clothes and hang them on the line, and cannot take my eyes off the deep blue mountains and gold sand hills, the spires, and buttes and gypsum-strewn arroyos the bones, stones, and dried piñon wood.
How (?) shall I begin I draw deeply the fragrance of antelope sagebrush, walk a couple miles to dinner each night, and poke the earth’s skin with my stick.
There is no stillness in this outer world: animals and insects are jumping, running, fleeing,
above and below, in front of and behind
hummingbirds buzz, a deer poses
lizards sprint and rabbits dash
in my peripheral vision ravens light
and lightning strikes
a dizzying theatrical performance, this earthly world.
Amplified and untethered, how (?)
how (?) shall I begin?
*Title: I am a Dweller on the Threshold -Van Morrison