Pre-Incan sunlight bronzes the afternoon
And climbs the slopes of Huata ahead of me,
Looking for ruins.
I follow seams of broken walls, mazing
Up the fields left to fallow centuries
Near the shards of a great highway.
Above the town,
My breath becomes the wind – Andean thin.
I hear flutes. The walls run in harmonies,
Stone upon stone, small voices buried with
Monolith and bone.
The spirit of some bare-backed beast has taught me
To seek: there are temples, there are cities,
There are kings. They await the restoration
Of all things.
Unbound faces with bright obsidian eyes,
Burnished wind-bruised cheeks, hand-woven laughter,
Flinting shy smiles.
I rush to meet them on just the next ridge
And find myself--here on the edge and sigh
To where the sun sinks like golden treasure
To the depths of Lake Titicaca, lingers,
Blazes, and still breathes over and under
The ancient sky.
(Provo, Utah, January 1979)
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment