The sun slipped west, behind the brooding Rockies –
I found myself dangling feet, like Humpty-Dumpty
from perihelion of that great & empty catenary
swerve. Get up, my circus-sister cries – turn
90 degrees – face North again. I did... but
wobbling on that westerly, she took my hand,
said – balance on one foot. Look overhead.
The sky was slowly shuttering – a royal blue...
& Venus lifted from the sea. There, she pointed.
I saw the two cups pouring... & the small star
at the pivot, stoutly aflame – quiet Polaris,
galactic gate. True, magnetic (Étoile du Nord).
Homeward, my integral soul, she murmurs.
Up to the source of this winding sound, this
wounding sign, of many waterfalls. A mist
lay recumbent on a limpid stream, immured
in creamy limestone banks. A stand of pines
& cedars circled round a spring, that played
unceasingly above a rocksmooth face. Shade
of all that’s hidden from the proud, the vain...
I heard Natasha whisper, as the wind
washed through her hair, & mine. Only
an outline, or a promise... flowing cleanly
through me, lifted to stand... (to understand).
You hear leafwhisper of the tree of life,
said she. Yon early tree, forsaken for
false, glittering glory. Yet joy will soar
in its manumission – translated to flight.