You come upon me,
a sudden cloud,
the way an otter parts
the mirror of air and the half sleep
of the river, like the prayer
echoed in the word home.
I find your arrows petroglyphing the walls
of ancient canyon roads
leading to and from the caverns
of my newborn atria, images I recognize
in the sandbag of stars, in the flintstroke
of breath and a smoldering
moment before return to sleep.
You capture the blue brushstroke
both up and down
ever overhead and always absent
the way I have known waiting.
I have called these arrivals and departures
the Holy Spirit, and in other seasons
an inferno of devils.
You are the clear, boundless
desert sky, and yet I lift my face
and it rains.