It was my temple
when I had none.
Now, new adventures await me
far away.
Today,
for one more time
in perhaps a long time,
I walked quietly
through art’s temple.
I will miss
this place of solitude,
inspiration,
meditation
and tranquility.
I will miss the Russian faces
I have come to know and love
and the quilts
which exude warmth
even when hanging out
on the walls.
How do I say farewell to
the sculptures of strong men and women
forever holding
and dancing
and working
and playing
and protecting
and posing
poses?
I will miss eating
the ripe espaliered apples
nobody else but the birds
care about;
smelling the roses
and lavender;
splashing cool water on my face
during hot summer afternoons.
I will miss being awestruck
and stunned
and amazed
every time I walk through
its handcrafted doors
and slide across its Utah Lake clayed floors
and listen to the
clink drip drip drip drip drip drip clink
of its kinetic sculptures.
My heart and soul and mind,
(not my back and bottom),
will miss the not-that-comfortable chairs
and wood benches
and metal patio furniture
that gave me gothic arch views
out onto the street
or into that quiet garden space,
where I often sat
in different shades of light,
in all seasons,
to compose,
to write,
to be inspired,
to lift my soul.
I won’t miss
the few steps I heard daily
as too few people visit
this amazing place
and drink in this
the inspiration
of fabulous space.
I will miss the smiling people,
the artists,
the musicians,
the curators,
the directors,
the installers,
the docents,
the interns,
the administrative folks,
the cleaning staff,
who make it all possible.
I will miss thinking
and creating
and writing
and dancing
and soaring
there,
and crying with gratitude,
by myself,
(and sometimes with others),
at the beauty surrounding me.
I can go
to other temples now
and get new and different inspiration.
There are far-away places
to explore and discover,
but,
in this out-of-the-way Utah Art City,
its surprising edifice of beauty,
which embraced me
and held me close to God
when I was otherwise cast out,
this stuccoed white citadel,
will always be
Sacred Space
to me.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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