October 28th
You awoke fast, and tied
the frayed laces of your shoes
with haste.
I heard you tapping my window
with the knowing rhythm of piñon
and gathered morning light.
I rubbed my eyes in response,
and you laughed
like a landslide until I rose
and dressed.
We walked with cool charm
into the sleeping valley, taking
with us last night's dreams
so we could dip them savagely
into the river and galvanize them.
We talked of the lizards who scratched
their way into the stones that line
the jagged turtle scales
of the mountain, how they know
the bellies of these stones,
and know their words,
and their ancestors.
We spent the rest of the day cooing
back to the thrumming songs
of the birds, so they would hear
in their own tongue our names.
When the night settled
like a sigh, you slipped
away to our firepit and brewed
the peyote we had been gathering
every day since you arrived.
When I found you, grinning,
I knew what you had done,
and I laughed, like a landslide,
until the whole mesa rumbled
along with delight.
You drank, and saw the sky clench
the dark sands with misting eyes
and love.
I drank, and saw you as
you truly are, and fell
like pollen into the folds
of your clothes,
and slept.