I am the Keeper of the Mysteries.

I know,
I only understand imaginal realms; hence
I keep still, knowing why seasons turn—
how truth is never fathomed in clean, neat prose.

I have held the mysteries in myself, contain multitudes,
embrace opposites. I am formed from paradox.
I rein in the mysteries.
Life, death, rebirth are the steps of my dance.

Metaphor is my landscape.
I am a vast canvas maintaining space
where beings offer themselves to one other.
I clasp dry trees of my chaparral savannah

In its red, crusty soil. Madrone and manzanita
ruled among knob cone pine, luxurious in youth,
scraggly with tan oaks scattering acorns
all over the rolling hills.

Under Me is where depth flows—hard water, minerals.
My forms receive fire, rain, earthquake, plague.
My depths take in ash pits, smoldering leaves —
embers falling on a forest canopy.

I am One who charts the Great Migrations.
I open with the Sun, radiating on the trees
of life the beauty that captivates all beings.

I am One whose meadows uphold slender legs
adorned—golden brown skin. My canyons carry
paws slinking silently, echoing limestone’s stark face.
I am One whose duff is stampeded with others,

Close, connected in my sweet, dusty face.
My ridges hold a travel that goes farther
than humans could ever understand.