High up the mountain canyon
In stillness, clear sunlight
Touches all things created
Precisely and gently.
Mature grasses with seed heads
Bow their ruby red tresses,
Reminiscent of liquid jewels and
Sway gently in the cool breeze.
Shimmering, in earth’s grandeur,
Totally submitting to the Sun.
My gaze turns upward to the
Mountains standing guard, barriers
Against 21st century intrusions.
This canyon of compassionate colors
Broadly striped in layers of dusty rose,
Buff yellows, and sage greens augment a
Sky of startlingly blue expanse.
Nothing but the white form of a waxing
Gibbous moon hangs suspended in eternity.
On a patch of dry desert earth,
Bounteous spikes of indigo blossoms
Vibrate with the flight of bees;
Passionately going about their work.
Pressing against suspended movement
Do my senses deceive? They soar and
Float about in chanted Psalms.
The humming draws me even closer
Into the monastic atmosphere,
Where sons of Benedict divinely chant
Their office seven times each day.
But who influenced whom? Did bees perhaps
First suggest the ancient tones of chant?
Or are these monks and bees so in tune with
Each other, they unite in work and prayer?
The sky’s blue canopy and crystal soft
Sunlight cover my solitude. And
Silence sets me adrift in the present…
No past, future or thoughts beyond Now.