At the still point of the turning world.

Four Quartets,  Burnt Norton. T.S. Eliot

I wonder now why I go back–
Back to that same place in time,
On that same road running from
Albuquerque to Colorado Springs.
It is a place in time past
Stuck soundly, as lichen to stone.
That moment is the axis around which
The years before and the years after spin.
There were other, darker nights—
In Eastern France, or even
In coastal Mazatlan.
Through those black skies
A billion stars shined and
And yet none left a shadow
To rest upon the cooling earth.
In that one night turns the focus
Of both past and future,
The prism through which spills
A world of scattered memories.
That night is my “still point”
And around that brittle night
Spin both past and future–
A solstice for a wandering soul.