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A cave hid like a mouth
up the cliff side for those who dared
to climb the old stairs,
crumbling like a brain
aging,
steep
with recollections
of travelers and their many stories.
The stones shivered
into a coat of metal,
shook like a gong each time
I stepped forward,
a signal to whoever was above
that someone was moving toward them.
When I reached the end
a monk smiled there
said, Where are you from?
I could have said anywhere
he wouldn’t have known,
but I answered America
with honesty.
America–
his mouth still curved
in a crescent moon.
Have a seat.
I sat on the tongue
of the levitated land
as the stony peaks glistened
like the pearly teeth
of a saber tooth
lost to time.
The man was a calm lake breathing
on a windless day as he drifted
up a smaller staircase.
His robes were the fog,
the lifting of invisibility
on our breath as we tilt
back to the shade of changing days,
deeper into the esophagus
on the other side of space.
He stood before an alter
as a melody soothed the cracks
in his dried autumn lips,
as a wooden stick awakened a drum,
as I understood the rhythm
of thanks
for being able to exist
in such a place,
floating
like misty rain
over the edge
down
to the stream
and rocky beds
where later I planned to rest
to bathe in the never ending song
of the land’s heavy chest.
I told him America,
but as his prayer filled the air
I knew what I really wanted to say
was I’m from where the leaves on the trees
kiss the sun’s fingertips in a courting
and blueberries glisten on the counter
like stars in the morning
and when the snow comes we don’t mind
for we know these flakes want nothing more
than to grace our faces,
show us that despite the cold
and pool of shallow sun,
we can still glow red
like a nebula
spinning dust
into newborns.
