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Already in a state of grace,
Walking loose and slow
Down the trail from Garfield Peak,
High on the volcanic drama—
Muscular rocks that broke all restraint,
The occasional soft carpet of red, green, gold,
The old weather-tested trees
And the tender, hopeful trees,
The almost painful views
Of turquoise-fringed,
Numinous blue water
(The precious gem in this setting)—
I'm meant to pass a man standing,
Staring at the lake.
He turns, locks eyes, and says,
"It wants you to belong to it."
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