Through The Gate

Coming through the gate
its' handle brandished with others effort
of oiled hands
its' hinges creaking with mild resistance
I pause
Have I been here before?

The ridge rises with openhanded wildflowers
The lupine particularly pink this season

I do remember the blue lupine and the scattered
Indian blanket flowers
The black-eyed Susans waiting for
harsher sun and parched soil

The moss edges the stones from
spring rains
Rains that buried seedlings under
the sandy soil until now

I do remember this place but is brighter now
and perfected in wildness of textures and whispers
Sounds primal and resonating the stirring valley

I cannot turn back this time
I am propelled with older vison to not turn around
This is where I belong
In the wildflowers and in sundrenched vistas
In the wildness of forgotten dreams

The gate closes behind me with the next breeze
I look forward to meeting the next visitor
resting in this place with me