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Sacred Intention at the Sphinx
Sandy Scull

Sand swallows my intention for this trip
as if the Sphinx were again being buried alive.
What I had crafted had more head than heart.
I stand as if naked before the silence of all that rock.
Saying intend feels presumptuous,
when I desire a more intimate rendezvous
between receiving and offering.
Prayer, a more direct and humble approach
for communion with this star messenger.

I remember my wife Julia saying to me,
You never ask for help.
So I risk: Help me
and follow with: open my heart
to receive & reflect more light.
I kneel to touch the earth,
to ground myself
in simplicity.

The stone stele at the base of the sphinx speaks
of a pharaoh’s negotiation with the gods
to assume kingship. I leave an acorn
near its paw to seed the dominion of my becoming.

Dawn morphs the Sphinx from gray to gold.
I feel my heart has gained a few ounces
on the scales of Ma’at.
As I climb onto a camel, the man-cat
carved from bedrock has my back.
Wind wavers the distinction between matter and spirit.
Something stays hidden in the heart
behind the heart—something tender yet strong.
May it find its wings to soar
above this land of beauty and ruin.