Once I make it to the summit
it all spins into focus and
I am here, I mean, really
here—

I vanish

into the center of things,
beyond the chiseled cliffs, the
plunging cheers of green, the
blue hills sprayed across
my runaway sky,

and no, I can't stop
the wolves of memory from
gnawing at the edges or
former versions of myself
from serving up tray after tray
of regret, but look,
life begins now and now and,
a million times, now.

Daybreak: another choir
singing in garnet,
piped in from higher places—
its fraying backdrop,
its obscene glory
changes me everywhere, and
I am no longer my past, no
longer those days, pressed and
blistered and unrepentant as
the brassy lake below.

Listen, you've glimpsed it too:
your power, a blur of awakening,
holy vacuum of stillness
finally speaking,

not unlike driving through
small towns, here
and then not here—
only the feeling of something
prim and blooming and maternal
remains on your way to
the next scale model heaven, and
for a moment you know where
you came from
and who you still are;
you know
we are dreamers
in the Creator's dream,

ourselves creators,
ourselves the dream.


Patricia Joan Jones