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.


Breath returns

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;

occasional recipients

when the soul conjures a feast

alongside its own riverbank.

We must receive the gifts when the gifts arise.


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