Asheville

Blistering beneath mountain sun we found
ourselves nowhere near the basilica,
but a terra-cotta dome and turquoise line
led to a garden with a prayer labyrinth heart—
I thought of Louisville when Papa died, the turns
as I talked to Mom and the flight home; and Princeton, too,
the winter we cut a prayer trail in the cold, hard earth.
We passed on slate steps and I clasped too hard
but turns for softer touches lay ahead soaking
in the slow clangs and steady Om of wind chimes.
Is providence a walking but not going? Is it?
Is it? Is it? (A mockingbird, I could echo forever…)
Deeper in prayer came, but was it always there, here,
like the woman breastfeeding on the garden’s brick wall?
You and I chased each other behind then before
as we will elsewhere and have…choose and chase,
Chase and choose. It isn’t something to escape? Is it?