Four Corners

At the ever changing edge
where water, sand, air intersect,
I become the fourth dimension,
that redirects, reforms, refreshes
all the elements scattering
like when you were a kid at Four Corners,
you stood in all those states at once,
reached your hand to touch the wind,
back when you knew your real name,
everything made perfect sense,
except for bullies, sisters,
the truer purpose of things.
The ‘51 Ford had crossed the Great Divide,
so now the water flowed differently,
if there had been any in that corroded radiator,
or those scorched dry beds that zigzagged to the sea.
The spired rocks spoke of other connections,
but they were red stone deaf.
You could not see the brown sand from there
where the shells of life all crash and break
where tidal waves of spirit explode against the wind.
I stand fierce at the ragged edge
of water, wind, sand, time, space,
stick my big toe in and
change the course of planets,
the way the rivers run,
and, maybe, touch the hem of God.