Return

Return Mountains so close they are Neighbors, Holding in the bowl of sky, Keeping at bay the rising sun Until late in the October Of falling leaves And golden larch spires. Holding that same sun hostage, Now leaving rose colored In the darkening, In the cooling of the day, In the laying down of Frost coating. We return here to This place of wood-riven Cracked log, Risen by hand-to set in the Cradle of the Swan-Missions. Centered-cloistered around The heat of fire and Fire heated stone. The luxuriant sound of larch Becoming alive again on its way To ash. The quiet within, We return. To remember what has been, What could have been, Suspended between that and tomorrow. We return to listen to the songs To listen to the dreaming. To fill the emptiness with Desire. In that returning We become sated in That fortress, protected, Or absolved from the world Beyond the neighbors of mountains. To hear that song, To dream, We come back.