Memories of flute
makers and players walk
with me on the narrow

sandstone trail up
through the heart of Zion
like a stairway to heaven.

So good to see fleshed faces
and shake warm hands
after so much time knowing

you from typed words
and pixels of soul.
So good, like hard walls

of red rock, here finished
with black lichen, there
with grey and rain

through weeping walls.
Cloud shadows passing
their knowledge on while

the sun still shines.
In gratitude I climb
to Hidden Canyon

for the handhold chains
along the way that kept
me from falling.

Now, with walls on
both sides and the way
carved ahead, like

the bore of a flute
I find my own way over
the boulders. The breath

of a heartfelt song
played for the first time
through an old branch.

~ By Jon Sherman