Power of Place

My One Particular Place:

is it the exact center
of a boulder in the exact
center of a glacial runoff
in the inexact center
of a field of purple lupine
and red paint brush
below an exacting August sun
suspended over Elk Meadows?

or, is it this seem-less longing
for nothing between us
but lavender, cotton sheets
and Abba lyrics:
“…the sun is still in the sky
…let me hear you sing once more
like you did before.
Sing a new song, chiquitita.”

My place is wherever gardens grow
or need to grow, impatiens
and luxurious gladiolas, crimson
with passion and summer ending.
My place is the space between:
preparing for my first dive and the kiss
of lake water on nubile fingertips.

My place is not where I grew up
except for the horse stables,
sassafras roots, and wooded
wandering deer trails
that led me to contemplation
under apple trees
in fields of Black Angus cows.
“You were always sure of yourself.”

then, but now, place
is pain, “a blown out candle”
between love and declaration
“Will you try again?”
Between “patch it up”
and let it go,
between the first glass of wine
in the bottle and the last.

Then and now, place
is in the darkened stairwell
of the Hopewell Methodist Church
where an icon painting of Jesus
and an aged copy of Desiderata
expand my skin and detonate
my soul into the place between,
the white space, the thin place.

My place is where “heartaches
come and they go and the scars
they’re leaving. You’ll be dancing
once again and the pain will end.
You will have no time for grieving.
Try once more, like you did before
Sing a new song, chiquitita…
There is no way you can deny it.”