1000 Stone Cut Steps

One morning cutting peppers,

you spoke with gestures.

Dancer’s hands, bend, twist,

pale Irish skin.

You see as mystics see.

Mystics who walk up, up,

one thousand stone cut steps.

Climbing an old mountain path,

fingers touching moss, mist,

officiate with ease, pause --

chop apples, add red berries to bowls.

“Has the thought come to you

how we’ve known a mystical path?”

Out the back door,

your foot on the flagstone,

you look back:

“Is there another?”

We sit outside

under the heated shade,

the cat circling our legs.

#poetry