It’s the place that brings you to your knees–
hills, simple gray, red, mountains
black, yellow, white that rise–
kiss the hand of the sky–
a wide temperament that conducts itself
over hundreds of miles
you watch and wonder–
What will reach? Shapes, felt,
interpreted by juniper, branching
gnarling and gray over ages, eroding
alongside–stone chimneys below blurred
clouds that touch the land with snow
swirl, a mood that melts on contact
with the earth skin–simple gray,
red, black, yellow, white–we walk
many steps that change the path
Pilgrimage places, nichos for
bones, stones, precious-color gems
stolen, collected, treasured
(servant’s habit)
On the way to the mosque,
veiled, the sacred entrada
to the White Place, a mystery
placita, it breathes in sunlight
bleached and warm, sculpture
and pigment that can’t belong
to anyone else except for the artists,
land granted for those who work.


One comment

  1. Dick Gustafson · · Reply

    This is one of your best efforts. It flows and yet coheres beautifully. One word picture after another, yet artfully woven together.

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