Writing in a far and broken country, my pen
knows its kinship with the dark forest, asks
direction of its trees, celebrates its quiet amity
over the din of plastic medicine vials, the 40-foot
serpentine specter of a cannulae, the hiss and sigh
of an oxygen compressor amid layered silences.
We are named on a long list of regional poets.
The region is the sickroom where the palm and
birch in the courtyard know their meaning and
place. Lend a shaman ear. The trees will speak
and tell you that we are found, we are here,
not lost in those vials but found in the hallowed
company of artful seekers on a Vision Quest. Call it
the hero's journey - Strike up the hill. Cry out for
the Sacred Dream, for the purpose of your life and
its confusions. A comforting Infinity breaks through
fierce grieving embraced. The great dream comes
to you. The trees come to you. They speak in God's
tongue, which is - after all - your True Voice. . .
Life gives, leaving behind the key to its wide and
wild essence. Unlock the door. Listen ... the voices
are gentle and they mark the pathway with poems.