Dia de Los Muertos
10/31-11/2/2016
Small and medium stones border
devotedly placed objects around the yard,
alters of significance for someones I've not met.
What inspires us to choose particular totems;
displaying, summoning, illuminating, particularly
ourselves?
I chose four stones on my hike yesterday–
descendants of an ancient war between earth and fire,
propelled fragments of land to sky;
and gravity, being what it is lodged pieces atop one another.
Precariously balanced they are,
convincingly un-budging (until another quake wreaks havoc).
I returned to his Rancho and
positioned my new stones in the yard
pointing toward center
and fanning outward toward possibility:
toward life,
toward forgiveness.
Why this passion of mine
for picking up rocks, placing them into my pocket,
arranging them in orderly patterns?
Symbols of an innate knowledge,
amalgam of recognition and prediction?
I found another object today:
a guitar pick (an alter contribution
blown away, landing half-buried in the sand?)
It had my initial on one side, a skull and crossbones on the other.
I asked him if I could keep it and he said yes.
He knows where it came from and I don’t care.
It was left for me
Like the bird spoke
Like your song played
Like the sunset
Like the ever-fading smell on your clothes I still wear
Like the tears that leave me dry.
Deserts are good for that.
©2016 Gretta Harley
10/31-11/2/2016
Small and medium stones border
devotedly placed objects around the yard,
alters of significance for someones I've not met.
What inspires us to choose particular totems;
displaying, summoning, illuminating, particularly
ourselves?
I chose four stones on my hike yesterday–
descendants of an ancient war between earth and fire,
propelled fragments of land to sky;
and gravity, being what it is lodged pieces atop one another.
Precariously balanced they are,
convincingly un-budging (until another quake wreaks havoc).
I returned to his Rancho and
positioned my new stones in the yard
pointing toward center
and fanning outward toward possibility:
toward life,
toward forgiveness.
Why this passion of mine
for picking up rocks, placing them into my pocket,
arranging them in orderly patterns?
Symbols of an innate knowledge,
amalgam of recognition and prediction?
I found another object today:
a guitar pick (an alter contribution
blown away, landing half-buried in the sand?)
It had my initial on one side, a skull and crossbones on the other.
I asked him if I could keep it and he said yes.
He knows where it came from and I don’t care.
It was left for me
Like the bird spoke
Like your song played
Like the sunset
Like the ever-fading smell on your clothes I still wear
Like the tears that leave me dry.
Deserts are good for that.
©2016 Gretta Harley
