For F. R. Taylor
Hands shield the eyes.
Viewed from an escarpment,
Across the horizon,
Mountains are black with forest,
But hazed in light.
A granitic cloud with a corona
Keeps their summits a sacred secret.
The heart aches for Taos;
It is nowhere to be seen.
Searching the plain,
Suddenly, a canyon’s crack.
Surprise, and the thrill of vertigo.
Gazing is a parachute
That floats through a hades of shade.
In the pit, a gleaming serpent
Slithers over ore.
If you reach the city of Taos,
Enter on the seventh day.
It is a place to pray, and to sleep
At peace beneath the stars.
July 25 – July 27 2010
Mountains rise in the distance,
Regal with pine.
But this is a forest of pinyon dwarves.
After it rains, the trees smell sweet,
And a rainbow arches above them.
Hikers eat the pinyon’s seeds,
And with walking staves
Climb their way through.
The city of Flagstaff shelters in place.
It is built amidst the trees,
Which raise their spears high,
Obstructing it from view.
Dominating, the ancient peaks
Demand a fealty, a piety,
From everyone near and afar.
At dusk, where a grove greets the sky,
A dome slowly rotates and opens.
Inside, men with coordinates,
And armed with apparatus,
Calibrate the lens of a cyclopean eye.
Their sharp minds bring it in focus.
Shining forth from the fortress of God,
A searching star-light finds its target–
July 31 – August 6, 2010