Gone are the days of magic and mayhem
when rounding the bases and summery eves
held sway.
There's a cave door tight bouldered
at the head of a green field,
Come with me there
at midnight's deep hour
to enter the earth
slowly with purpose.
Grip the sharp pick-axe
left by Rumi the poet,
grab its ash handle,
feel the heft.
Swing it strong
downwards, pierce
the dirt floor
where tourmaline nuggets
gleam in the dark.
Towel the hot sweat from your brow
as deeper you dig,
gaze up through black air
at intricate patterns
of boxwork embossed
over centuries
as minerals lace
the high ceiling,
each drop of water
building a home.
Breathe in the still feeling,
the structuring old fluids,
as Indian spirits whisper
their lives.
Carry your history
with the grace of brave ancestors,
now ready to move upwards,
slowly re-enter daytime
in sure footsteps of silence.
Blink your two eyes,
adjust to a shine of gold light,
now back on the playfield
and comfort of front porches,
smile wistfully and sweetly,
many memories evoked.
Hear your chums' laughter,
the sharp cracking of bats,
as horsehide baseballs gallop
then plunge into the perfume
of rosebeds,
disappear in bright instants
like stars shooting through heavens.
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