from a collection entitled Temazcal: The Steam House Chronicles
The light of day recedes.
In an instant, something churns within me.
Like a desert quail suddenly kicked up,
startled and fleeing from the underbrush,
a thought flutters to the surface:
This life is passing away.
With that, the twilight glow
beyond the trees
becomes a doorway.
I offer tobacco and copal
to the soft forces that stirred
this stream of feeling inside me.
as if suddenly being released
from a marbled tomb.
I contemplate going down into town
to pick up supplies
to imbibe a sip of smoky mezcal
to dine on the cuisines of ancestors
to be around other two-leggeds
to listen to their laughter and night-murmurings
to remind me of the elegance of humans passing time.
I opt not to.
I sit like a mountain instead.
I follow the shade lines down
into the root structure of the self.
A woven curtain is pulled back
to the great mystery of wayfarers….Way-faring.
I hear a reminder, put to me gently:
The soul is its own entity
over which we have no control.
It is doing its own work.
Our day-to-day self has little influence.
We are quiet, mindful observers taking notes, adjusting as we go;
when the soul conjures a feast
alongside its own riverbank.
We must receive the gifts when the gifts arise.
(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com
image: Eric Muhr of Newberg, Oregon