from a collection entitled Stirrup of the Sun & Moon
It is akin to misplacing your keys
It is similar to visiting a long-familiar haunt —
that beloved market of kind faces and friends
you had woven into the tapestry of your days
and suddenly finding them gone
and all the aisles changed.
It’s like the faint memories of your younger days
when you would drink, and drink, and wake
in locations of great uncertainty.
I’m thinking of that first heart-pained vaquero
who’d fallen so in love with a patch of ground
who’d grown intimate with every wash and arroyo;
who was a Disciple of the Breeze
on a first name basis with red wolves, magpies, chickadees
who heard the first pounding hammers of men
the first blaring horn of the train
and knew instantly
a whole way of life had just come to an end.
The end of silence has arrived, he said. The end of silence.
If you find yourself in the territory of exiles,
with your citizenship temporarily revoked in the land of dreams,
this is when you must surrender.
You cannot push the river or control the weather.
This is when you must rely on the old refrain:
Trust in the horse that is your soul.
She knows the way.
Let go of the reins.