Way up in the mountains,
Past the point of fatigue,
Between inertia and determination
Sore feet find their rhythm,
And the words that have flooded the mind
Seem to have ridden tributaries out to some unknown delta,
Along the rim of that high lake,
Cold from ice melt somewhere further up,
There is a flat spot—like one monolithic boulder
Laid itself out like a table, welcoming everyone to sit down for a well earned meal.
The sharpness of the cold on the feet and calves, wading in; only so far.
Throw in a line, perhaps a trout will bless you.
If not, the view will.
Take sun if you wish,
Or take shade under the conifers,
Weeping their sap,
Crusting like sleep in the eye’s corner…
And if one is to delicately pry out the accumulated sleep
with the edge of a blade,
Tuck it safely in a pocket,
And some time later commit the sweet amber
To the ember of a coal,
One may breath in the dreams of the forest,
and the lake.
The tree, silent and generous in every way,
Has known the company of stars,
and the seasons like rock flour, ground fine,
Barely moving In serene suspense.