Mest lästa ▸
Dave Bonta
ark ark
so many ways of saying here
in Raven
the aging spruces
still stand where we planted them
their insurgent roots
rings of mushrooms
between the lines of trees
one woodfern waving
shaggy manes
imagine the sweet release
of autodigestion
A brown-striped breast feather
floats down from a high bough
in the spruce grove
where some hawk or owl
plucked a grouse. The outermost
trees rock in the wind.
I step carefully as a bridegroom
over each raised
threshold of root.
The spruce grove
at the top of the hollow
harbors a north-woods chill.
Seated on a runner sled
I hurtle down into
the sunlit field,
my shadow like a witching rod
stretched out before me,
alive to every bump and dip.
There overtook me and drew me in
To his down-hill, early-morning stride,
And set me five miles on my road
Better than if he had had me ride,
A man with a swinging bag for load
And half the bag wound round his hand.
We talked like barking above the din
Of water we walked along beside.
And for my telling him where I’d been
And where I lived in mountain land
To be coming home the way I was,
He told me a little about himself.
He came from higher up in the pass
Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
Is blocks split off the mountain mass--
And hopeless grist enough it looks
You stand between the cedars and the green spruces.
Brilliantly naked.
And I think :
What are you,
A gem under sunlight ?
A poised spear ?
A jade cup ?
You flash in front of the cedars and the tall spruces.
And I see that you are fire —
Sacrificial fire on a jade altar.
Spear-tongue of white, ceremonial fire.
My eyes burn.
My hands are flames seeking you.
But you are as remote from me as a bright pointed planet
Set in the distance of an evening sky.