Is there one refuge to hold you
through deaths and heartbreaks,
awakenings, and the long ache of becoming?
Me, I found a mountain valley bowl
where light bends soft,
where lodgepole pines lean in—
old, tall friends who listen.
I usually arrive tired,
creased by the weight of the world.
My bare feet meet cool grass,
and something inside frees
a remembered rhythm in my bones.
This place isn’t high-end.
Its doors creak; the rugs don’t always match.
The walls whisper wild tales
from dreamy dusty decades past.
Some buildings used to lean like they’d
nearly fallen over laughing.
It’s got dirt under its fingernails,
vintage stories in its beams,
music in its trees.
I might weep a little in the morning
and howl with laughter by bonfire at night.
There’s a small lake
that doesn’t mind when my eyes brim
with salt at how it sparkles.
Shinier still in the hush a few hours ahead of darkness
when low sun coaxes its soul to the surface,
just before the light I chased all day long
slips behind a veil.
Darkness stirs other ways of knowing
when I cannot see as well.
Night glimmers there are ancient, deep.
Some treasures only speak
in the tongue of shadow.
A love child of joy, hope, and weirdness,
it doesn’t give a damn what you wear to dinner.
There are unhurried trails that wander
around creeks that reflect who I almost forgot I was.
Some places won’t let go of you.
They are a compass.
Something inside says yes, go this way,
before your mind catches up.
A home born of dreams, untethered to reason.
Impossible to explain, though we all try.
We babble.
We shrug, we wave our hands.
We sound ludicrous saying out loud what this place is.
Then the next person comes,
and does exactly the same.
