I give him white orchids
and a jug of water.
He bows, dark eyes smiling.
Lifts fingers to kiss white bearded lips
then presses them to my forehead.
Vision blurs and turns inward; under the throbbing
I see only indigo and violet.
My head blows open--skull and skin parting--
leaving no barrier between me and the World.
It all rushes in then: wind,
drums and stars against black.
Tissues in my throat dance in a cadence
all their own, separate from my beating heart,
separate even from my breathing.
They dance with the persistent drum;
mouth gapes wide, despite my smile,
and music flies past tongue and teeth.
The bird flute plays, hanging
just above my head:
bird-flute creators spout sound
across the sand and rocks,
across the whirling dancers and the sea beyond,
across the centuries, breaking barriers of time
reaching me here,
here at the turn of the millennia.
Squatting on a high wall,
a frog ready to jump into a deep pond,
the poet laughs at my astonishment.
The russet orange of a desert
sunset silohettes him against dark sky.
Drum strapped on robed back,
a small bundle in hand,
he asks, "Can you forget your life?
Can you walk away without looking back?"
"Forget your life!" he shouts
and leaps off the ledge.
He doesn' t fall--just fuses
with melting sighs into the setting sun.
"Can you?" trails after.
I hesitate less now than a hundred years ago,
much less now than six months ago.
Beneath my feet, the ledge feels less solid,
the song comes out clearer,
the sun glares brighter,
and the pathway back into my self grows more faint.
"Almost," I answer after
he had disappeared.
Almost.
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©