snow pack is a strange and so familiar
sighting in our alpines, we follow its flow
with an acceptance that borders on real
comfort, thinking ahead to water and taps
of storages far below in valleys to whom
we so rarely travel.
the rivers are moving heavy with snow’s
minerals and heavy sediments of mountains
displacing energies of miracle with energies
somehow, we mix in the anxieties of fire:
water, some ways, means less fire.
neither would agree. one is: hopelessly...
still, the silent snows of summer shimmer
mirage-willing, in the suns of the highlands.
they crunch beneath summer hiker shoes
with a tinsel flutter of metals and those vows
of hydrogen and oxygen that make up lifes’
bloods of all that’s Being among the conifers
and the swollen lakes and waterways - still
freezing cold in the heats of early solstice.
we are not fooled. we’ve heard the world
will end in fire, or, of course, in ice.
and yes, either will, certainly, suffice....