Images from the Kingdom of Things
Sunlight is blowing westward across the unshadowed meadow,
Night, in its shallow puddles,
still liquid and loose in the trees.
The world is a desolate garden,
No distillation of downed grasses,
no stopping the clouds, coming at us one by one.
~
The snow crown on Mt. Henry is still white,
the old smoke watcher's tower
Left-leaning a bit in its odd angle to the world,
Abandoned, unusable.
Down here, in their green time, it's past noon
and the lodgepole pines adjust their detonators.
~
The blanched bones of moonlight scatter across the meadow.
The song of the second creek, with its one note,
plays over and over.
How many word-warriors ever return
from midnight's waste and ruin?
Count out the bones, count out the grains in the yellow dust.
