Big Sur

It’s the symbolic mystique of the place
and the thread of life that clings to the edge there.
It’s the quiet Zion of a Redwood stand
and the spiny leaves of thistle glistening
with morning dew on a canyon trail.
It’s the aching Buddhism
and the cliff-side alchemy of Esalen.
It’s the still-raw synthesis of land and sea,
the cadence of the waves
and the primordial ministrations of the tide.
It’s the home of gurus and goddesses,
the shrine of canyons and cliffs,
where Nymphs might nestle in wildflowers
and Sprites might caper in rocky streams.
It’s the mathematic perfection of Monarchs wings
and the clean scent of eucalyptus on the salty air.
It’s the coded message of a million stars
in the clear black night,
telling of travels through time and space
to twinkle a silent requiem for sunset.
It’s Highway 1, the black serpent,
winding its way along the California coast,
bringing a new perspective to Paradise.
It’s the Beat poets pilgrimage to Bixby Bridge
and the cathedral of arches
that calls the bards of sage and chaparral,
of sunset and starlight, of time and tides,
of butterflies and morning fog,
to reveal in humble words the nimbus glory
and inexplicable splendor of Big Sur.

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