Sanctuario

I finally found this small place inside of me where I can go and really get away

There it’s always cool and shady, it is quiet and I can take comfort at my leisure

No one else can get in there with me but I may freely come and go,

Though I might be long absent, trudging down these hot and dusty roads

But when at last I find refuge again within that clean and well-watered courtyard

I easily imagine, for a while, that it all makes good sense once more

In my leafy refugio, sunlight remains cool and gentle beneath whispering Alamosa trees

It’s easy to unwind with all the loud and randomly chaotic outbursts so far away

There is this small and sheltered patio where I tend the geraniums and my fish pond

Where songbirds still find a home and butterflies are gliding past bumblebees

There the sound of small running water tinkles out its infinite variations

And just a bit of a cool breeze is ruffling the surface of that small pond

Some flower is always blooming and the soil is cool and moist upon bare feet

I remain quite satisfied for periods not measurable within my allotted time

From that hidden mesa, open to the gentle sun of winter, I look out with gladness

And all these good things in their proper places intertwine, with a quiet grace

Clean air wafts the scent of slow home cooking lightly to my nostrils

The stars and the Milky Way are not obscured by foolish nightlights here

I leave the muddy, trail-stained garments outside my precious sanctuario

Then I jump into the clear cool water to rinse the dirt of the world from my skin

There my trees are ripe with fruit and the golden autumn lasts for weeks

When the good rain falls it is always gentle and likely forms a rainbow

In the winter the southern sun warms my sheltered patio in gentle yellow comfort

The children’s voices carry to me and somewhere a wind chime plays quite softly

Time has long sanctified this place and left it to hold ancient memories

Its old timbers, red flagstone patio and sandstone stucco bring a real sense of place

There is no foolish lawn to be mowed, but honest chores still need to be completed

A good old dog splashes through the shore plants as frogs leap into the pond

Songbirds nest and crows gather to tell stories among the whispering Alamosa trees

And far above, the snow blows across those ancient glaciers, upon our sacred peak