33 Miles

Loving with the sky as our only witness through three panes of glass to the west, north and east.
Befriending a return to what I give the name God through four glass panels to the south.

Quiet overlay of creosote, mesquite, hills upon hills, and the vast sky
a tether to existing in a body. 
A moment one might choose not to breathe for concern of interrupting a perfect now.

Entanglement with that which is without separation is most vulnerable when grasping is so readily available.
And so I train.

To be. Able to feel sunlight across and as a kiss upon the face.
To be. Able to distinguish the sound of a Raven’s wings flapping boldly overhead.
To be home.

The sensation of endearment can quickly persuade a flee pattern in my structure.
And yet, disciple of curiosity for more, perpetuates a steadiness.
Though fight on the coattails may arise in the form of a literal or more likely energetic blow, jab, uppercut to my soul or yours.

Poetic choice to mark a day of one’s birth dwelling simply from the dawning of light to the rising of a night’s sky. 
Both tame and wild on a day called Thursday, 
joy can be discovered in a single ant, quivering grass, and my own chest rising and falling.

Company found in rainfall and thick rainbows, in soft-eyed midnight black cows, in stars that have nothing to hide, and a forgiving sun.
To be. Held as I desperately needed to be held. 
And to worship as I was parched from a spell of forgetting.

Basking, reveling and aware of my geography.
No exemption from pain as the proximity to deprivation is palpable to my collective heart.
Not attempting to escape from my reunion with all things I call sacred, nor the paradox that I am
33 miles on the right side of an illusory edge that makes me “free”.  

Sovereignty within a physiology allows for a system’s ability to nap and a reorientation to the lovership of being.
To be. Able to be cradled under mother moon.
To be. Able to experience the fullness of what I know to be humanness.
To be home.