(no subject)
On The Lost Valley Trail
God said, with white bags of stones on a hillside,
‘I was dropped from the sky by ‘copters,’
or was that the man, whose red-eyed sadness,
wet with mountain mist, spoke when we asked about
the distance ahead?
No, God spoke from the white-wash spring over moss stones,
‘Can you see me now?’ the deafening sound
of watercrashrock…
‘Or now?’ and he poked at me with teeth called boulders,
in his three mouths they named sisters.
A voice with terrible heights, golden green cliffs,
auburn mounds, sky-sculpted valleys, his voice:
Heard him loudest as I stood alone, the pith of the plateau,
rubble-rock resting place. Silent, empty,
‘I’m this feeling,’
I caught up with my company.
Rain and cairn stone understanding,
A path of steep, wet stones in front of me.