When you know who you are
you do who you are,
polishing a mountain
without a goal
(There is
nothing
more.
There is
nothing
other.)
At ten,
I did who I was;
I had no choice;
knowing and
doing were not apart;
and where I was
was as much of myself
as
what I did.
(Now
is
a
holy
place.)
Then years of trying
and coming apart,
polishing stones
not the mountain
until
the canyon
wore me away
so I could see myself
singular as rocks,
as shadows, clouds
as cliff curves, edges,
water scars and swirls,
real as skin,
clear as sudden change,
my body
opening to the stars
like Chacra Mesa
on the skull of the world.
Now at 50,
I am the place again.
(The front
and the back
are part
of the same.)
At ten, the place
was a forest street
where I did who I was,
biking to eskape
tender failures,
sailing through arbors of high ponderosas,
winding like grassy streams
through
Saturday morning sun.
When you are who you are
you do who you are.
(The
sacred
and
the profane
are
sacred.)
At dawn near La Fajada,
breathing in
the rising light,
I am
ten and 50 all at once.
Running through fossil fields of corn,
running the cool space of canyon shade
as one runs memories through the gorge of time,
I see myself
in the shadow at my side,
bike rider, now
dawn
runner
reaching Wijiji
at
the
moment
the sun
blooms
wildflower light,
lighting white
over the canyon rim,
over the edge of my brain.
Stunned
by God
again
and again,
why should I doubt
any
longer?
Coda
Now is
a holy
place.
There is
nothing
more.
There is
nothing
other.
The front
and the back
are part
of the same.
The sacred
and profane
are sacred.
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