The last embers of summer: their slow sustaining fire,
whole days devoted to carving stone,
the arcing sunlight my gauge, my chisel,
as the Goddess’s white dust blesses my skin.
In the evening I walk out to Esperanza as she walks to me,
puts her head in my hands, her nose into the halter.
We ride bareback through spiny gorse and rabbit brush,
watching the master’s light sculpt the clouds with color,
the ancient presence of Sisnajinni overseeing all.
August 21st marks thirty-two years of marriage,
the deepest, hardest practice of all. By now we know well
our vices and virtues, and have given up hoping for one
over the other. Our vices and flaws are slow burning burls,
as much a part of our marriage as the sweetness, and the silence
that rests in knowing that no words are needed.