Botswana

You must ask for what you really want
Don’t go back to sleep. Rumi

I
The bushveld is too full to talk about.
Look.

Trees, grasses, savannah, swelling clouds
drifting toward distant herds.

There is the eagle,
the shadow of his wings.

The sound of no shoes walking
in the Kalahari sand.

The leopard saunters by himself
in the Mopane forest. He is not to be seen.

Here the trees are in prayer, birds full
of praise, sky kneeling, and the wind so light.

II
You must spend more time with low-lying wild
marigolds by the side of the trail.

You must be dressed with what’s here. The loose hair
of a beautiful woman doesn’t need to be combed.

You must try to lose yourself,
and stamp a deep memory
of all you love into the earth—

the eyes of the hippo
wallowing just above the surface;

the wrinkled skin and massive ears of the elephants,
cooling great bulk, so awkward but useful;

the bend of the trees
sheltering all; and

the ground hornbills carrying their red pouches
as if filled with their treasures.

III
From another continent, you must figure out
how to be delivered from your own figuring.

Understand you hold no stature in this land but
you must care for it still. Don’t listen to the Gray Lourie
birds with their harsh warning, go away, go away.

If you are quiet enough the grace
of this landscape will follow you home.

What ever can be done must be done.
Love has more courage than reason.