To even the most orgonite-enhanced,
Salt room-washed neophyte. For them,
The twisted pines must suffice,
The rusted charge of the root red trails,
The manzanita, Mormon tea,
Blue winter fat and soapberry ...
The fortresses retain their shapes
Against all metaphors.
And the path of creamy pink boulders
Poured from an ancient forge goes
Wherever it wants to go,
And the walkers become subject
To what it shows them:
Silktassel, crucifixion thorn,
Sumac with the audacity to turn red ...
Yet giant slab faces are submerged in the sand
When they no longer have the capacity to scare
And still they guard a certain area
That humans can feel but remain too far
To pierce its veil, except for, maybe, tonight,
An October at dusk, when the spruce has its skin
Pulled away to the orange brown of the berries
And the pines pose as our primordial fear,
An elixir almost too much to bear ...
The seeker walks the serpentine through fear,
In the mad desire of belief
To a sun that is already setting,
And no destination indicated ahead.
Is the thought of a sunset ritual enough
To call forth the temple from the sand?
There's music from Bell Rock, pouring forth
From the silence, from people who've become,
With only flute and drum, coyotes...
Then the Gaelic fiddle jig begins
Under centuries of stone melting.
It seems we can't reach such realities,
They float in air forever too far away.
But everyone can meet at the Cathedral,
Take our flashlights to the top
To populate the ledges, laughing and singing,
Dancing and drumming, believing in an
Event because there are so many people ...
Impelled by some force to crouch by the moon
Or as close as these monoliths will allow.
