Zion's-IMG_5291 cropped

 

 

Go

 

To the farthest land

 

On the sea-clad coast

 

Of nowhere.

 

Go early

 

Before the dawn can open

 

Her softly singing

 

Wings.

 

Go while it is dark,

 

To where the bells of mist spoke

 

Earnestly

 

To the constellation of eagles,

 

Before the spark

 

Of time’s beginning,

 

Before the hosts

 

Awoke

 

Of greedy ghosts,

 

Run rampant.

 

Go

 

On past the corn stalk

 

Of tattered tassels,

 

Beyond the brush overgrown,

 

Along the purple crowds of nettles,

 

Into the unknown,

 

By the austere

 

Mountain

 

Rose.

 

Go, and do not stop,

 

Until you

 

Stand

 

Finally,

 

At the foot of cliffs towering

 

And stern.

 

There you may find

 

Then, the three-spired rock

 

Delicate in the owl-lit night,

 

Ethereal ancestor of the cosmos, from

 

Whom the worlds arose

 

And to whom they will yet return,

 

Packed up and put to sail in the long canoe

 

Of goldenrod

 

And willow

 

To ply

 

The hummingbird’s river journey

 

Of stars and hidden skies.

 

Soon, during the war of endings,

 

What may follow

 

The tumult, the rain, the mad-clapping torrent?

 

Will an echo

 

Of peace settle

 

On the saffron petal

 

Of the buffalo burr

 

On the canyon wall,

 

Gathering place of so many

 

Prescient ravens,

 

The way a moth lights atop

 

The shimmering leaf,

 

Or a silver minnow

 

Rests in the brook’s golden

 

Shadow?

 

Beyond, where the winds walk,

 

Within the cavern

 

Of the three-spired rock,

 

Abide the translucent

 

Flames of the sun,

 

The bright-

 

Oared ship of the moon’s daughters.

 

There, the young coyote

 

Circling,

 

Lies

 

Down with his fellows to nod

 

Off in their leafen lair.

 

All day the woodpeckers knock

 

And drum,

 

Outside on the winding tree,

 

The scent of the pine blossom,

 

Set adrift.

 

The blur

 

Of the rock wren

 

Will grace

 

The sparkling bowl

 

Of spring,

 

And the fierce spirit of the blue

 

And gold god

 

Will lift

 

His silver bow

 

To let fly

 

The twang of the moment of justice.

 

Ever still

 

Within the three-spired rock

 

Lights the cosmic soul

 

The ineffable one,

 

While white snow

 

Will fall

 

On the eyes

 

Of the shining waters.

 

There will be nothing to fear

 

Then,

 

In the ill-defined

 

Hours, even

 

Of the shaggy bear,

 

Pacing

 

Or

 

The teeth flashing

 

Of the great whale coursing

 

The deeps of the sounding sea.

 

 

© Sharon St Joan, 2013

Photo: ©  Sharon St Joan