in and out of my studio

Silence

If you stop the scrabble of your boots

on the gravel slope down Carl's Hill,

hush the water bottle's slosh against your waist,

stand still until your breathing slows,

until the pulse quits drumming in your ears.

If cicadas or a light plane buzzing somewhere

tether you to earth enough to risk the trip

over the rim of the empty bowl, go.

Shoulder through the folks six deep

in front of each O'Keefe,

cup your ears to shut the babble out,

the whir of explanation from a dozen docent tapes.

If the blood-throb of your palms,

the synapse-clicks from her thick paint strokes,

lift you through a scoured hipbone,

over her red and fissured cliffs,

and into the sky, fly.

Or sit on the last bench in the last campground

past Borrego Springs.

When tourists pack their vans and go,

face away from the fire pit, release your breath.

In that thick silence

strung between the octillo spines,

stand the vast as long as you can.

Don't back away, but dive,

past sand, past sky, over the rim

of the empty bowl, and swim.

            Jayne Relaford Brown