So Many Miles from Home

So Many Miles from Home

(“From the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is overwhelmed. Lead me up onto the rock that is higher than I.” Psalm 61:2)

The horizon kept falling away the closer I came to
a new habitation. There were thoughts like mosquitos,
telephone wires draped across my existence,
curio shoppes boarded up since the 60s,
various buttes and razorbacks and gorges
and gray rivers knifing through the red clay
that left everything on hold. I had been here before.
But I could not place the name.
It seemed so far from where I had begun,
and farther still to my destination. I was
not
unlucky. I was not lost.
I was only miles from the end of the earth where
ships used to fall off.
I imagined the night filled with coyote howling,
I felt the warmth the earth still carried. The grass was
cool on my feet,
the dirt was warmer. There is no language here,
no signs to mark the way. I had heard there were
devils
along the road
but no one asked me for directions.
They may have climbed behind the rocks for the night,
they may have set me up for failure.
I don’t believe that, though;
I know my own behavior. Although I may have
welcome an imp or two
just for the conversation.

I stopped not far from where I started
and so my sojourn began. I stayed alone, though
I had not planned it that way.

Across another vast night the icy moon reminded me
that, sooner or later, I would hear a voice,
revamped, renewed,
an original version of
the first of me and the quiet divinity
that speaks to me so many miles from home.

Like Snow in the Desert

Like Snow in the Desert

(“May the Lord be praised! He has given rest to His people…” 1 Kings 8:56a)

Places arise from consciousness, buried below
beliefs and farmland. Who hears the seeds shouting?
Who cuts down trees with birds in their limbs?
Healing arrives on unexpected days like
snow in the desert, like the pastels the peek through
the side hills and mesas.
I can’t explain it,
but silence is my medicine,
slow is the pace of my reanimation.
In the hollows of our minds there are snapshots
reminiscent of times we laughed without reserve.
The canyons opened on either end to rivers so
lazy
they barely spoke a thing.
If I was young again I would
take more naps in the sun.
I would unwind the yards of
insistent lanyards that kept me painfully
straining to submit to the instructions
left behind by my captors.
After so many miles there are curio shops
with silver and turquoise awaiting my slow meanders
between aisles of beadwork and sage.
After so many years there are drum songs I wish
I could hear one more time again. There are
friends
whose smile (even those who think I’ve
lost my way) would light my soul like
campfires that smell of mesquite. We
would tell our stories without critique,
laugh or cry, we would walk the winding way
with songs still incomplete. And our faces
in the fiery glow
would tell us everything we ever needed to know.

An Enforced Silence

 

An Enforced Silence

(“…they were prevented by the Holy Spirit from speaking the word in the province of Asia.” Acts 16:6)

Full of sentences, a pen dragging ink across scratchy parchment.
Will anyone read? A paper balloon floating free
until
the candle burns out. Will anyone find it in the
washed-out wadis a mile from the road?

Full of journeys, the dead end surprised the minstrel with
too many miles on the road. Will anyone hear? A few strings of gut
vibrate against the golden gourd until the melody comes full circle.
Will anyone see the choirs in the trees?

Full of months and years, a wanderer
stops. Fully stops. And is quiet when the
words would break out like squalls in the desert.

And the seeds are sown in the enforced silence.

More Miles of Bad Road

More Miles of Bad Road

(“Therefore, I hated life because the work that was done under the sun was distressing to me. For everything is futile and a pursuit of the wind.” Ecclesiastes 2:17)

Winter roads are the worst; first it rains, then it freezes,
then the asphalt is a plate glass coffee table; nothing visible
except the bent fists of wind that throw dirty dust and snow
across the sliding surface. And we knew there were more miles
of bad road ahead.

And so, in a hurry, we slowed to a crawl. Life was frozen.
Once a river of life for swimming and picnics,
baptisms and reunions,
now as solid as a strong box. There was no
breaking in.

And so we did not stop for the view; what was there to see?
The snow turned to fog, blind as a ghost,
and the most we could do was stop two nights sooner,
brought to a halt by nothing more than vapor in the air.

We wouldn’t have cared,
but we were nearer and nearer the journey’s end
with time running out,
with pain the traffic could not see
(we would have done better to puncture a tire
and hope for a hand along the road).

But with pain higher than the clouds that dropped
winter ice,
and time slower than a glacier
we moved (or did not move) it depends on
your perspective.

It’s easier to wait near the beginning of a journey,
but near the end home is in view,
family waits for you,
friends are looking for you,
and with every hour the trip is slowed
are fewer moments and less joy with the beloved
who you hold in your heart while
you grip, knuckle-white, the steering wheel
meant to take you to a new start
at the old place
where the bed fits your frame
and the voices engrained in your mind
are the very first sounds of the morning.