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.