There is a place in the high country
along the edge of the snow line
where even the trees become starved of oxygen.
In the short summer season Columbine,
Lupine, Bistort and the Periwinkle Forget-Me-Nots
bloom for mere days. In an instant the white and gray landscape
is sprinkled with color.
Climbing the pass there are Aspen whose leaves sparkle green
and make a sound like the gentle beating of birds wings.
It is here I am dreaming of a house that does not yet exist .
A home whose foundation is vaporous, whose walls, floors and doorways are apparitions,
trying to find the shape that fits the home inside me.
Now there is no structural detail.
It is not yet a home.
It is filled with not yet imagined art work.
I am patiently letting the images formulate in my mind.
Its like watching the afternoon clouds build over the mountain range gathering form, depth, darkness.
Masses arise holding water and life inside.
I dream of my home, built into the earth,
heated and cooled by the sulphur waters that bubble up in the caves just behind,
letting the home’s interior follow the natural processes of the earth.
I will keep treasured books, linens, pots and pans
But where they sit, how they are held,
in what juxtaposition to one another?
I do not know.
I am letting it all come to me, like a dream, like a prayer
that forms on ones lips, like a silent longing for something good.
I dream of this place that is love, light, born from inspiration
and shared in visitation, celebration and communion.
Come visit me.