I stand here looking at a vast horizon,
flat plains of nothing behind me,
the view uninterrupted and vague.
I turn to greet the vista before me,
green and gold and brown,
blue streams and skies, inviting me.
I want to be there.
Where lyrics ride warm breezes.
Where imagery hangs around me,
like Spanish moss on old trees.
I want to share the phrases that
tumble and flow in those streams.
I look into the valley of this canyon,
and for all that I see,
there is no one around.
I look back on the plains,
and see no one,
not one kindred soul,
who speaks the language of poetry.
I call into the canyon,
Can anybody hear me?
Is there anybody there?
I think I see figures moving
far on the other side,
but they don't hear me.
They don't know I long to share,
the melody of horizons
the harmony of crystal skies,
the phrases and words
that sing pictures of what I see.
They don't know I'm here.
So faintly, I hear them,
singing their own prose,
chanting their poetry,
creating their pictures with words.
Or do I just think I hear,
because I want it to be true?
And so I stand alone,
on the edge of this empty canyon
making worlds out of words,
longing for companions in a poem.
I won't give up the pilgrimage.
I will continue to cry out.
I'll keep yelling into that empty canyon,
until the day dawns,
when a kindred soul yells back.
