Taos Summer

Taos Summer

The dead fly on the windowsill

next to a magpie feather 

reminds me to be humble. 

On a bed shaped like Taos summer, 

all rounded edges and sage, 

I daydream in adobe. Cottonwoods

have abandoned me. Yesterday 

they chattered through the night 

but this morning wind moved 

and left only the crows.

A spider drops from nowhere 

and lands near my leg. I don’t know 

whether to run for the mountains 

or enter her silent web. I allow her sticky,

silken strands to bind me to the physical

while singing bowls ring out

the sounds of emptiness. It’s always

a question of balance. Do I leave

behind the poetry of my body,

its litany of suffering and bliss, 

and journey to the Blue Lake

of my dreams?  Or do I stay and dance

with spiders with only a glimpse

of filtered light through quaking

aspen? The dead fly speaks to me

of impermanence.