Knots

Knots

Why isn’t this working? 
This poetry of place.
I write…Hovenweep, a title.

In the light of the red stone castles, we walked.
Sunset’s unwavering glow changing shadows, making 
memories dance.
In this deserted valley, on rocks made from sunlight and blood
my children play. Giggles from the past layer on giggles today.

My heart stays, you can do better. Try again.
But it isn’t coming. The pen stalls.
There was too much in that place…too much emotion, joy
and history. I try again.

Ancient currents of the divine flow through the red sand
entering my heart. My soul lunges forward seeing beautiful
ghosts through open, ancient windows.
I grasp loves hand, feeling the warmth of shared admiration.

I read it, unsatisfied. I can't make it work
this poetry of sacred space.

Sprawled on my green lawn I try opening my heart to the heavens, to those
who have a story I want to share. Why aren’t you helping me?
Just try again, the only reply, though I suspect it is not from the source I asked.
I try again.

In a mess of blood and genes, histories of many souls lie dormant,
bigger than time and space; in restless slumber.
Rocks speak as she passes by, wake up.
Grandmothers, great, the dead ones wait with understanding
of the depth and breadth of eternal experience.

I stop, because inspiration pauses. I wait, then sigh.
I do not know how to tie them together.