leads me across a meadow of swaying grasses and wildflowers.
Finally within sight of the summit,
the walls of earth fall away leaving me vulnerable to craggy rocks,
above the emerald river.
The sun above rises predictably toward mid-day,
warming my skin in the cool morning.
Blowing and gusting winds from the west,
threaten to take,
my hat (or life) with one swift powerful burst.
Fearful of a trail-less descent, I continue my climb baboon-style,
finally sitting before reaching the apex.
The rock beneath my bottom is,
hard, jagged, and solid.
Between sky and heavens,
I exist on a narrow swath of earth.
I rest in the home of the eagle,
the creature who soars closest to the Divine.
The topmost crest taunts me with its proximity;
it is only twenty-five steps away.
The windy breath of God,
whispers in my ear that peaks are not journey.
Ahead, a few paces beyond reach, is the land where the birds meet the One.
It is where God,
the Holy One communes with the winged.
The pinnacle above the raging waters,
atop the weathered rocks,
and guarded by billows that move my body against my will,
is the place where love culminates.
Yet it is not time to reach the One.
It is time to follow,
to learn to be.
I yearn for the view from above,
the vista that answers all.
Like the wanderers, I whine in the wilderness.
At least as a slave I had regular meals, I rage!
I contemplate opposing the very gusts of the One,
to be reminded that on this precipice my humanity could cease.
Stopping. Being. I trust.
I listen to the heedfulness, the spirit within, that tickles my core and spine,
and prevents my bodily ascent.
I sit on solid rock in the land of broad-winged birds,
and feel the extravagant, loving breath of God on,
and my heart.
And I journey.