I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain. The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face - but I smile.
I have my compass, the North Star and the maps I made before. I can still climb this new stanza navigate past the memorials, through to the meadows beyond and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain and write again.
re-write of Navigating the hills, flexing my writing muscles ahead of a poets retreat
This is the Canyon lands Can you feel it man? Dawn's early promise to lend you her hand. Awake from the cave from the rubble you climb. Down the lonely path to the river of time.
This is the Canyon lands far from the thought Plateau. Deep down in that crevasse where the warming fires glow. Where the canyon walls climb to the cheeks of the sky. The sun she peaks in from time to time.
This is the canyon land Where the River she winds. Cut down deep by her flowing design. Through the valley she runs away from the caves. On a long from our shelter to a place that we crave.
This is the Canyon Land but all we want is more. To travel the river of time set sail from our Shores. Slide along the river to where the canyon meets the sea. Float on from that crevasse to Eternity.
This is the canyon land from where we took the plunge. In to her cooling hands flowing toward the sun. To divide and conquer explore the high seas. Gain, grab, and get more than we can dream.
This Is The Place To Where the River Flows and the canyon meets the sea. Plastered form our being until eternity. Something Beyond this miserable cage that we live in. and the sky opens up to give all she has to give Where the sky opens up to give all she has to give.
In a glass room at the top of a mountain I learned how to speak. At 10,000 feet I learned the shape of words and how they can sound so much like wind persisting, wailing against the impossible odds of sturdy, dismissive construction. If this is not a home, then what is it? A shrine atop this mountain? An offering to the gods of sunrise, sunset, thunderstorm, and man-made radio equipment? Man-made fire? There are certainly plenty who climb to worship at its feet. Surely nothing, save from the mountain itself, could send this glass room tumbling down the path I just walked to reach it.