FLIGHT

awake early again
after a contemplative night

weariness and perseverance
under the dark, dark sky
finally turning gray for dawn

two flee old behaviors, habits,
worn boots beginning to fail
on the long, long road

wrapped together in a blanket,
they face mountains far to the west
where gods whisper the sky
full of laughing white clouds
that strut in a new breeze

(on the eastern horizon,
a thin, fiery line of deep orange
begins to light the desert)

his hands knead
her taut shoulders,
feel the tension in her neck,
slowly massage all the way down
to the small of her back,
feeling for, hoping for, wings
so she can fly away home

HIGH ON THE MOUNTAIN

oh, joy,
high on the mountain
close to the clouds

primary colors whirl
to the fiddle’s sound,
to the mandolin

oh, joy, we dance
in the feel of fresh air

oh, joy, we feel
muscles move to the music,
oh, joy, we feel

oh, joy, we rest,
sweat drying at twilight
while music echoes
from the far horizons

oh, joy, we breathe deep,
oh, joy, we feel

I AM NOT A PILGRIM

I am not a pilgrim.
I am the stillness in the morning dew,
waiting for the sun to set me free.
I am the silence between the music’s notes,
waiting for the night to let me be.
I am the presence between my heartbeats,
waiting for my love to come to me.

I am not a pilgrim.
I walk with the wind at my back
on dusty trails through neglected landscapes.

I am the stillness in the morning dew
as the sun heats this deserted land.
I am the silence between the music’s notes
as the night wolves begin to band.
I am the presence between my heartbeats
as the fire dies, and I begin to understand.

I am not a pilgrim. I am not a pilgrim
when the wind does not blow across the sand.