The wanting space is mine now.

After years of curating it with meaning,

Losing it all, and starting over and over again,

I’ve come back to a seated position among its relics.

The restoration that once exploded in chaotic color

Now faded, has a devoted space on the walls.

Visitors stop to wonder at it

They feed upon its forms and blushing, fading tones

All around this wanting space, the rainbow dust has settled

But bodies of possibility erect within reach.

The earth has never spoken of such color

Where the sky is so intent and attuned

Miles of trekking above the timberline to stockpile a vision

Tuned me in to the fertile valley of the deep,

Seasoned the endurance of my heart space,

And led me to this blooming meadow

Where now I sit with what is wild and telling

and with what is still working its way to the surface.