In Canyonlands, on a mesa called The
Island in the Sky, above the confluence of Colorado and Green Rivers,
I watch the sky return to earth. It
had been a long and sorrowful separation.
The years had seen the rise and
fall of empires and wars too numerous and murderous to count.
Division was the only mathematics
practiced and the personal its single sad solution.
Now, within this southwest
panorama, clouds are reaching to the ground in one united hydrologic
passionate embrace.
I see the truth of Ramana Maharshi
in the shape of rain. The wind is sighing there is nothing but one Self.
The red and white rock pinnacles
named Needles reach their fingers upwards shouting hallelujah
and the Maze is opening its hidden
inaccessible canyon heart to unconditioned love.
Within that perfect view seen
through the rainbow sandstone rock of Mesa Arch, I disappear.
There's no reason but park rangers
still are looking.
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