Leaning against the rocks,
wondering at the movement of the years
and the certainties gathered here—ablutions
on a bouldered slope, chanting in trees
in the coming dark, in the unfolding entirety
of the life I’ve known as my own.
I write, but poems don’t find the page. So I listen
for the wind, for trees turning to shadow, for the stars
to signal of sky life
as clearly as I hear the waters
on the shores of this lake.
And they come,
one, then another, and another
of that silence so ancient, so subtle
that time can’t capture, nor distance determine
the closeness so thorough
as only a poem
And I’m here, so I write, in the headlamp’s light.
As a breeze from the lake lifts the edge of the page,
I’m here, so I write.