poem

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

of hope. 

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....