from a collection entitled Stirrup of the Sun & Moon

Like those small sepia-toned offerings left by fleeing late-summer cicadas,

increasingly of its own volition, my spirit, too, flies the coop.

It leaves an empty shell behind on its various night travels.

Wind-like, and yearning, I think it has outgrown this existence.

Last night, I spent another handful of hours tossing and turning.

Face pressed into a pillow filled with desert sage,

eventually this mind gave way

to my spirit’s preferred form of wandering and living.

The feathered parts of me, talons and all,

lifted up and out and traveled to a charming house nestled below red cliffs.

Upon my return, I awoke with a new light-filled understanding.

Weeks upon weeks had gone by.

I had been aching and wondering.

Have I ‘gotten sideways’ with myself?

Then I snapped out of it
— our culture's gift: the trance of self doubt —
and realized I was perfectly in the flow
of my way within the Way;
it's just that I had reached
a whole new level of mourning
about the way the world has become.

It doesn’t matter what happens

to ‘the clay’ of this body anymore.

I’ve made a home in a casita

in the universe next door.


(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Vision 1 / Persistent Visions / Byron Metcalf + Mark Seelig

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