As I lay in the tent, my husband ready to sleep in the mummy bag alongside, I ran the tapes of our first day back on the desert. Our shaman led us in a bit of review, and nostalgia. We came this time hoping to connect more deeply with Pachamama and Original Wisdom. For me an intention to be open. When I chuckled my sweetie asked why. "I want to be open," I said . . . "if I only knew what that means," I laughed out loud. He chuckled at first and then joined me in the belly laugh that encircled our rain fly and evaporated upward into the starry desert sky.
Trying to Open
beyond the reach of the brain
Finger’s taste of Woolly Bear
without insistence on a name . . .
more than fuzz, less than bristle,
delicate costumed ball.
Nostrils filled with basil or sage,
annexed as if by magic
to a distant time and place.
Taste buds depolarized by dusty rock,
as if saliva is the only remedy
for such indulgence.
Ears lulled in the moment
where soundlessness
meets the crashing chorus of crows.
Eyes struck by the glowing edge of a
v-shaped gaggle of geese
synchronized with the appearance of the sun.
A knowing the compost is tired of onions,
longs for peaches and pears.
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