Absence of Oxygen

~ Berthoud, August 2017

Returning from one 

Of many well-loved places, 

Along the latitude of 

Touchstones and triggers,

Space to raise my gaze,

I began to understand

That I'm the maker of my

Realities, about

The truths of where I've been

And where I'm going,

Because, I thought,

There is long life ahead for me,

As well as miles,

Or maybe I should say,

Whatever life lies ahead for me

Is long enough so I have time 

For my realities.

It's time to be my blooming

And delve into my telling 

And I'm not fretting 

About any of it, as long 

As I listen to myself. 

In those days of driving

The grasses grew longer

Everywhere, or maybe that was 

Just a way of seeing, a vantage point;

Although somehow eternal there 

The sweep of prairie's

Tall grass, hard grass,

Broom and wheat, 

Sage, and rioting

Bundles of tumbleweed

Against impossible light,

The long shadows behind me

The mountains, I found 

Myself in farewell to places,

Dreams and memories.

Moving then, as tethers loosened 

I thought that finally it might be true,

Be possible for me to fly

On memory’s wings, on

Dreams that wouldn’t die. 

All of this redounding now, 

Flashing whole in this nano-second’s

Absence of oxygen,  

Exhaling, sighing as I slip away to sleep

I come into repose.

And you are there.