A Pilgrim Am I

I want to fly to Mexico.

I want to look up, and see red clay roofs

Baking in the desert sun.

I want to buy soda that’s made from real

Sugar cane, 

And bottled up

In ocean green glass. 

I want to pass by and see some boys

Playing baseball and chewing gum,

Rose pink and chartreuse 

In their mouths.

I want to look down an early morning street,

And see a pig-tailed chiquita 

With silky black eyes, and the curve

Of a native face.

I think I can see her now.

Her ancestors were warriors,

And watchers of the stars.

Their legacy lives on in her,

Even as she skips to the mercado

To buy tortillas 

For a family breakfast.

I want to hear a woman’s voice

Singings songs of love and pride,

As it drifts from an open window,

With the smell of soap and linen.

She would be housecleaning,

Performing a duet 

With her radio.

I want to stay awhile 

In some sleepy pueblo, 

And learn the people’s tongue.

I would eat of their food, and drink of their cup, 

And grow dark 

In their sunlight.

And when both my mind and my belly were full,

I would say 

To my dear foster town,

“Adios. Que Dios te bendiga,”

And hesitate at its outskirts.

But I would not stay.

(John Muir said, “The world is big.”

The mountain man was right.

There is so much to see.)

I would lift up my eyes

And soar over the vast depths

Of the Atlantic.

I would look down and see frothy,

Foaming waters, 

And the bulk of some creature

Just below the surface.

A whale, perhaps, but a part of me would wonder

Does Leviathan still lurk 

In the deep, dark canyons

Of the ocean?

I would touch down in the night and, eyes heavy,

Fall into a moon bright pool

Of sheets and pillows,

The Mazzaroth above sparkling 

Ice blue and soft. 

Those poor stars. They are so tired.

They were there when Adam laid down

In a lush bed of grass, 

And smiled up at them.

“My brothers,” he said.

“Our brother,” said the stars.

“My sons,” God said,

And He kissed them all goodnight.

For He had breathed forth life

Into Adam’s lungs

As He had breathed forth the constellations. 

Now, the stars have lost their brother.

Only their Father knows how they have sobbed, 

As they watched Adam’s children

Shake their fists toward heaven,

Only to fall 

And have their bones

Turn to dust.

We are the sorrow of the Milky Way.

Those ancient orbs of fire 

Now watch me.

Will I be loved in the eyes of their Father,

Or will I be a fool, carried off by the slightest 

Puff of air?

My dreams would be dizzy, and panicked

With the burdens of my soul.

How can my race not wither

At the thought of His face?

Oh, God, how am I going 

To look into Your eyes?

I would wake early, and lie in a sweaty,

Tangled mess of sheets,

Tears slipping down my cheeks.

The sun would rise, bursting in beams of 

Citrus colored light.

Lemon yellows, and oranges, and pinks as soft as

Sunday morning blushes.

My heart would lift at this.

“That’s pretty,” I’d say.

Only after a breakfast of fish and figs

Would I remember where I was.

A thick Hebrew accent

On the tongue of a stranger

Would further convince me.

I would wander around the Israeli land.

The hills, the deserts, the streams

And the shores of Galilee.

Under the Judean sun, I’d grow darker still.

I would listen to rabbis teaching Scripture,

And children talking about 

How much they love

To be out of school.

I would let the wonders they have seen and heard

Wash over me.

I would feel the Jordan’s waters running deep 

In my veins.

I would sing the Psalms of David

With the four winds of heaven

And see a pillar of fire in my dreams.

Yes, all these things and more I’d do,

If only…