Sitting atop an island of rock,

Overlooking Canyonlands National park,

The sunset firing-line behind me,

Panoramic, make-my-heart-sing views,

The third solo sojourn with the muse,

That clears my head of nonsense,

Gives me space to decompress,

Sun-warmed skin to rest my cheek against,

Moonstone manicure chipping off,

Softly slipping into moonless night,

The message:  Return and create the light.

Mushroom-cap soldiers calling songs of me,

Out of hiding into wholeness.

Expansive horizon yawning,

Look at you taking your time,

We are well past the age of dinosaurs, mind.

The leap is yours for the making,

Into the land of magic-breathing lungs,

Exhaling violet sand dunes into thin air,

Spun out from the heart’s deepest lair.