Whatever waits

We meant to spend the night on Lake Isabel 

but made a wrong turn 

and now the light on the mountain 

burns rust 

then old rose and 

soon a very dark 

wine. 

Should we turn back,  

try again,

keep going 

on this pretty road,

the one walling this river

with boulders 

that rolled down from the sky

like a horde of moons?

Should we stop at this inn 

with a view of the river 

rushing toward all 

that is waiting? 

We do. 

All night the river 

rams the rocks. 

We hear the purling, 

the tumbling, the crashing

them toward 

what is waiting, what

will keep waiting.

We drown in our sleep 

through that all-night 

dash into all that 

is waiting, waiting. 

We bow to this wrong turn--

it is a gift 

on our journey into

all that awaits.