At the Blank Wall
Dry weeds chopstick-click
as earth shrinks from human contact
and colors flee from bole and branch.
Seething grasses scream, a wild surf.
I am not meant to be here,
in this dark bowl of canyon.
Any moment, the skies will grow tidal-wave.
Drowning is a possibility
even as I walk in muck boots.
But I have dessicated at the blank wall,
shadowing my loves. This morning’s high-tide
pried open my windows and awakened
energy. Dawn’s secrets ray
through an open gate.
First and last on earth, I witness
the buried seeds burrow with a will
into storm-battered soil.
Why is it the shadowed trail
down which the wild deer leads?