Standing Desk

Over the Bay Bridge’s

white stanchions

we drive

through

rain-minted

green hills

towards

solitude’s gate,

listening

to the beats

of Taj Mahal

until we stop —

hours of

meandering

metal

block our

path.

-

In the valley

people

carry coolers,

cameras,

and selfie-sticks.

Kids pull

on mom’s sleeve,

and a mexican man,

in red jersey,

red shoes,

and red hat,

guffaws.

My eyes

adjust

and I see peaks

unwinding

snow-capped

shawls,

their mouths

billowing rivers

like a forge

billows flames.

-

On the trail

switchbacks

turn 180.

Mall escalators

ferrying turquoise, lemon,

and peach puff

jackets

higher and higher.

Eventually,

the crowd thins

and we hopscotch

icy streams

towards the summit.

-

The booming

growl

of rocket engines

grows louder

as

father falls

comes into

view.

His body

powerful enough

to sweep away a city.

Powerful enough

to drown a nation.

Powerful enough

to fill my soul.

He tells us to lie

down

in his mist

and disappear

for a while.