Here, in the hot breath of Texas hills,

in this scrub oak forest

that was once the ocean floor,

the cactus family gathers 'round its fallen few;

limestone altars wait for tributes new,

and Rilke's dragons chase us each once more.

Here, fleeing from (or flying to) what is both imagined,

and also real,

Treading on the fossils that our past lives yield, 

The iron links of then and now

a conduit of self's unceasing reign,

Seeking the container that might hold the surfeit of our pain.

Here, in this high desert, baring/daring dive 

into pools we fear too shallow for the task,

Here, where even stones are found bearing masks;

The selves we each assemble,

Cairns of every one we've known.

Thus to grow, from stone...

...to stone, each step leading us in, and out, of understanding,

Knowing exit is both necessary, and profane.

Knowing we must build an altar to our pain.

Discovering Sanctuary in the desert bare;

Finding mandalas suspended in air.

Here in the depth and crush of wooded hills,

Oasis offered,

as Wisdom wills;

And where despite

how broken

how wounded in relation,

Ascension into majesty is each sunset's invitation.

Thus I pray to realms unseen,

Flying, fleeing, and all the points between.

For Betsy, who made it possible,




and for Ellen, who shared the magic.