A staff is more than handhold, its worn
to the grasp, trust in what fell down from above.
The llama's sure foothold fits like our staffs
in the rocks climbing upward to the top to the sky.
We risk the blaze of sun, for the wide wings of condor
soaring, spiraling, hunting for a meal, never assured
except for his hold on the sky, flight, supreme
over the rocks and tumbles and worn out straw
of season of cold passing into days of warmth.
The spindle clatter, the roil and curve of weft needle
a prayer to on high, like the spirals of rock to the sky
the sun speaking to us at feet, these are complete
to the rest and remain of our escape to safety
in the cradle of our summer retreat, waiting for stars
to fall among us, waiting for stars to carry us away
from homes built within a circle of spires, three spires
to bring the ley lines of power into our grasp, to offer
escape from the dust and dung we live in, amazed.