|
|
[The
Mountain] [Twelve Miles up
the Bogachiel]
The
Mountain
January 1, 1999 at Mount Rainier
Another day rises, pulls
a new year by its tail, then dives;
we hold hands, make vows
to change our lives.
The bumpy knuckles
of the Tatoosh Range
like fins of a Lochness monster,
emerge from a gray sea.
Clouds part, then congeal,
mountains appear, vanish.
We walk across ice -
water's thick winter skin.
I'm thinking of a poem,
words solidify into phrases -
how mountains are stolen
by clouds: the soft overcoming
the hard - when you gently
squeeze my hand and laugh,
as a bird lands on your shoulder.
We walk on water, into the center
of a frozen lake, you're not afraid
of falling through, you say
you can fly.
|
Twelve
miles up the Bogachiel
I sat on the gravel with driftwood,
pausing in their journeys downstream;
beside me was a toad: bumpy, brown,
plump as an amphibious Buddha.
Her eyes were golden.
We sat together, watching the busy
flow of water, rushing, always rushing,
while we remained still and silent.
She looked like she was waiting
for the end of the world.
And she was waiting with a smile.
|
Copyright © 2002 Patrick Loafman. All Rights
Reserved. |
