A Sacred Place
There is a sacred place
in the wilds of New Mexico
where fear of death
has no hold on me
I visit often
wind, wildflowers
black storm clouds
pouring over the
mountain top
My only companions
carved stones identifying
those voices silenced
by death
A faint path pressed
into dried grasses
winds through
scaly Alligator Juniper
ancient tombstones are
tucked willy-nilly among
stunted Pinon Pine
Some families gather
even in death
but mostly
nature thwarts
man’s desire
for orderly posterity
Fierce sun
incessant wind
eat away
names
dates
etched sentiments fade
fences collapse upon the dead
wooden crosses hang askew
Despite this, it is an
indescribably beautiful place
Recent rains have released
pungent scents
mesquite and creosote
damp earth and juniper berries
Softened red clay holds my footprints
hummingbirds zip overhead while
red Indian Paintbrushes pop their heads
above tangles of purple sweet pea vines
This sacred place
calls to me when
life is bigger
richer
overwhelmingly
more
than my heart can bear
It comforts me
when days are
dark, uncertain
to be reminded of
my own mortality
unexplainably,
fortifies my soul
An odd place to find
spiritual life
an all but abandoned
cemetery
but I have learned
not to question
a timeless diety
On a high point
overlooking layers of
grey mountain ridges
a meandering creek
with its blanket of cottonwoods
descending into the valley
on the east
I stretch my arms wide
lift my face to absorb
the midday sun
quiet my soul
Here - in this place
if God were to say,
“This is the end.”
I would be able to reply,
“It has been enough.”
and then, hopefully
“Thank you”