Patagonia is a state of mind where one is lost and one is
Where the land is so old and vast that the past thins out
And no longer holds us fast, where the long fences have fallen
And low stone stiles allow you and I to cross from field to meadow to stream
To drink the rushing river and bathe in the dusk.
Patagonia is a state of mind, a vast Antipodes
To be traversed in search of what meaning can be distilled
From its bories, fiords, and undulations.
The searching soul drifts in its windy sky, sails with outsized
On ocean-bound currents and drafts, planing over abandoned huts
And cultivations overtaken by the sleepwalking land.
My soul twists with yours there in the vortex
Of land- and seaborne currents,
Tangles with yours until our boundaries—
Always permeable and uncertain—fall away altogether
And we whirl for our moment, the spirits of you and I,
In a silent malambo attended by the gaucho spirits of the Pampas,
At the end of all things, at the source of the rain,
In a dance on the unmarked grave of regret.
The flux unleashed by the entwining of those spirits
Above the windy plain of Patagonia erupts here as lightning in the Antipodes,
Now as a mother's gaze at her dripping unnamed child,
Years hence as hickory that drops its fruit for birds
And yields its wood for working by our children’s hands.
It cleaves with light the unwatched sky where sea meets
And where night sleeps invisible and untroubled,
Protected by two spirits—one—descended from and dwelling in
Legion others of many names.
(for Lucy the spirit and the woman)