Desert Cliff

I come on vacations with a tent
to camp where the earth is canyoned
and cliffs lift up
to challenge the immensity of space;
where occurs no trace of humanity,
just windblown sand.

I eat when I want, sleep wherever.

Like the weathered cliffs,  I release
the rubble of my worries,
climb to a place
where there is no further climb up.
Only recourse: down.

I sit rocklike for a spell in the stillness
until peace flies off
and time reasserts its dominion:
the need to go.

I climb down and pack up my tent,
enter life’s mad flow
that is so like a river in flood,

only sometimes stand
like a cliff
in unwavering conviction:
glad to be a man.