Plateau

So vibrant it is here-- another world than what I have lived.

Red rock and sage brush,
turquoise,
and a dusty sky.

The perspective
is clearer up here
on the plateau.

It is a sturdy place to build a home,
The Hopi told me so.

It is safe here, on the plateau.
A rising up,
A leveling out.

I level out
with you
              stopping
before I reach the pinnacle
                              of my point.

The San Francisco Peaks
seem so far away.

Deities live there,
that is what the Hopi say.

And so with you,
so far away,
a place I've always dreamed
but never reached.

Like climbing up Fish Point
with medicine men;

He does not know or understand his gift
but he accepts.

As you guide,
You accept.

Looking for someone like you, but not you.
(I thought I was too),
But aye! Not I.

(I'll accept.)


But as Eric Blue Bird sought his kokopelli
down to the deepest regions of Yucatan,
So I search for any sign
of where you're coming from.

Like Alice Blue Bird,
I gather up the salt;

We gather up succulent salt plant in grocer bags,
finding moisture in the dessert;
finding growth between the rocks.

I look beyond my dusted toes
red covered sandals
seeking nourishment in the desolate,
an old woman my guide.

Like drunken reservation youth,
reclaiming their own name, their own path,
I scrawl my own symbol with the ancients;
I try to carve out my own path.

I claw at the rock wall;
I climb and scrape my knee
but when I reach what seems the top,

I've only reached the plateau
not San Francisco Peaks.

The plateau is a good place to build a home,
the Hopi told me so.

But just as Skinny the Navajo
I wish to know
what lies beyond the peaks.