by Beate Sigriddaughter

          samsara, literally: passing through

I am a wanderer in love.
Ten thousand things and more
at my feet. Perhaps
I am the tarot deck fool imagining
the precipice is just not relevant.

In the east the sun. I love
beginnings, the open sudden
cliffs, look, a monastery, and
beyond the juniper the town, below
slick rock ready for lizards
and the occasional snake.

From up above the town looks
safe, its circus of distance still
humming of a long-haired prince,
a silk rope in one hand, a girl
in the other. I would love to be
part of all that flying, a trapeze
of trembling certainty.

The mountain path is safer,
with no responsibility beyond
adoring the untrammeled four
white petals of a fendlerbush,
or at night Orion, easy
to find, soon sinking away
for summer. He will be present
still, but invisible, as so much
of great importance often is.

Even on the mountain, surrounded
by excellence, the trouble
of the city clamors in my heart
while blossoms recede and lizards
zip out of the way into comfort
with swift splendor. Under the radar

the original question, quite childish,
remains: Why

is there war? This world, with so much
beauty. Why all this
dishonor, a dreadful burden
handed down
from one generation to the next?

I spread my arms with hope as flowers
reappear, steep with attention and cliffs
at my feet. This life a sacred loan.
I vow to celebrate.