On the road there are stairs, twisted like a rope.
Cottonwood kicks up yellow dust interrupting
the breath that scrapes the surface of air with icy
trails, wheezing in circles, barely high enough
for anyone to take notice.
There’s an old Chevrolet with dangling exhaust
pipe, rattling out fumes as it lurches forward with
reluctance, playing it safe between the narrow
arches of towering mountain ranges that hover
over blue-green light,
displaying the mischief of the canyon. I reach out
with hesitation, afraid to let the westerly light breeze
touch my face before it shifts to the south. Black
Stetson and sunglasses guard against the sting as the
violent thrashing of windblown
sands offer solitude before nightfall. There’s darkness
that remains in the memory of it all, momentary
infatuation that cynically interrupts with weakness;
but I’ll take the shadows of fragrant sage over the
patches of hypocritical sunlight shaking
a wagging judgmental finger at the mesa of my spirit.
To me, the precipice isn’t so steep. Fluidity
and commodity rest buried beneath the edges of sacred
Earth. In the grand vision I want to walk through
twisting paths, absorbed by endless
space where there are no signs of printed words, just
hidden waters that remain undisturbed inside old ruins
grafted to the mount by mythical beasts, ancient
superstitions and God’s forgiveness. I want to excavate
the land with my eyes, resting my hands in the cool waters,
long gone and best forgotten.
©2020 Theresa C. Gaynord All rights reserved.
Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet. (within the horror writing community).