Friday, March 25, 2016

Strawberry Mountain

After the night the great bear drank from the pond,
and the night the rain rushed across the mountain,
after the morning of angels hallowed the woods,
that night in a vast sky we watched the stars seethe.

We had marched into the haze. Our last steps
up the stony ridge had been marched groaning.
Around the peak swirled the mist in the wet wind.
The clouds scattered in the wheeling winds.

The stony ridge past the wild strawberries
is long and steep. The trail had been weary.
But after the storm the morning of angels dawned;
the day of angels swept across the mountains.
A light too perfect, too real fascinated nature.

Why should then that day the sun go down?
That evening fire unfurled like wings...angular shadows
slowly blinding the woods. Now the stars
seethe, swirl, change. The stars die!
Oh horrid thought, they burn and die forever!

We had stopped on the ridge to pick the strawberries!
Remember? The violent rain slowly ceased. We slept
that night in peace before the morning of the angels' day.
All powerless we watched the glory of that day decline.

Night claimed the trees. The Holy Spirit passed out.
We became as dry stone.
The water in the spring is thick with mud.
Hopefully, we drain it past a bed of pebbles.

Brother, the spring is choked with mud.
We lie in the darkness thirsting but not afraid.
A thicket of the flies swarms yet over the spring.
We shall never see the great bear again,
nor will the season of strawberries and angels return.

A faint anguish of the heart disturbs our lives.
Thoughts become dry, and we are easily instructed in greed.
Now we must go down and await the splendor to come.
Tomorrow, tomorrow's splendor come





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