The Cactus

You sit in the forgotten bone-dry hills

surrounded by sand and sagebrush

above Buffalo Pound Lake.

A day and a night, and then

three more days and nights.

Do not mark the hours. Just sit

until the prickly pear raises its bloom.

A pale thing, translucent moon, sea anemone,

the first thin veil of a cataract that will lead a man

to the necessity of seeing with another kind of eye.

Can you birth a thing like this flower?

Elemental, composed of water and light.

The concentrated effort of pure will.

The blossom wilts and drops

without sadness, nothing resembling

nostalgia or regret.