Never arriving, what can we understand,
and always leaving, what’s left to explain?
– Su Tung-p’o (“After T’ao Ch’ien’s ‘Drinking Wine’”)
Leaving only the moment, I remain in this canyon’s swirl
of loose pieces, histories before me beckon memories
and how it’s changed in my lifetime to survive the storms
of wet and dry that forsake young skeletons of hillside families
to stand among the forgotten limbs at their feet.
I hold this landscape’s perfect smile of emerald green
in dreams, waiting for a glimpse of her velvet face,
wild skiffs of colored flowers entwined in her hair,
amid the planet’s storms for power, day and night—
always faulty propositions for the masses.
As I draw closer, leaving an uphill trail of time behind,
this place I have circumnavigated since I was a child
owns me—now that its desires have become mine.
My eyes ride the ridgelines at the edges of heaven
where I will rest easily when I finally arrive.
drycrikjournal 