SATORI

for Bela

 

All that time you were

building with stone I knew we'd

make it to the inside of one.

 

Someday, to cling to the

ferntree path, the railing of

brown balusters

 

past the sepia picnic

falls leaving the

falls mist light as a

 

grouse or a

ring of applause.

Walking the canyons of the three

 

million year old stone

tracings, sliding down the dark

water where it narrows

 

and so bends in out

secret and Matia canoes.

Once, years ago at Ausable

 

Chasm my parents, probably wisely, didn't

buy me a tiny tourist canoe,

paddles like ice cream

 

spoons, the Indians clay.

We the Indians are no

longer all clay.

 

Goverments turn evil, fail,

but the need for the

answer to the kinds of restlessness

 

holds. Body. Spirit. Times we

find the answer one way. We

can. We do.

copyright Ellen Tifft