What Do I Know?

We don’t know.

The world doesn’t know.

The world is needy.

The world is idiotic.

The world is barbaric.

The Universe moves eternally, under our feet,

over our heads, through our hearts and souls,

and I, the stumbling, fallible,

open-hearted poet of lost words

and lost worlds, mending still,

resigned to meandering,

am hoping for that one lightning bolt

that will open new doors;

listening to voices in the wind,

encountering ghosts and spirits,

and knowing stuff of other realities,

of no language, of no visibility,

that are full of colors and gloss and

sacred gatherings that I can’t explain.

At the bar in Pizzeria Mimosa in Hereford, Arizona,

a glass of wine and ordering something Italian,

chatting with the bartender or the person next to me,

penning a line or two, an edit here and there,

pondering the whats and hows of grasslands,

the wheres and whens of the Pacific Ocean,

the ups and downs of the Huachuca Mountain slopes,

the kindnesses of so many people I have met...

The world is beautiful, 

I said to no one in particular.

Just beautiful.

From: Getting There

Unpublished MS p. 39