The Language Maker

A windswept wild vision of God's song was your face
opened within the boundaries of time
now washed away
by the morning rain
leaving a clear pearl
untainted by life's rock
Your wounds came from a truth of lonely desert nights
by the Pecos River
with strange visions from the cactus
of light and night moons
of mescaline apparitions.
Creeley called you a prodigy, a poet called to write.
It was demanded of you
yet you turned away from language
not so bad I guess
and you dug deep in your garden
allowing the dogwoods to flower in spring.
But then that was a long time ago
and now you live in the hermitage by Big Sur
The waves crash onto the barren rocks
and cormorants bury themselves in the sea,
hunting......
You took me to Tor House to Jeffers home
by Carmel's shores to the poets circle of stone
and just then a shadow flew overhead
a hawk winging on the wind of memories
to the stone-cutters dream.