EAGLE CAP Northface w/ Monkeyflowers, Eagle Cap Wilderness

THREE POEMS from THE LITTLE CLAVIER . . .

PILGRIM’S PATH

There are many stones on the pilgrim’s path.

Under each one lies another piece of yourself.

You trip, you stumble, you fall.

Sometimes, you turn the stones over

and find faded pictures of lost loves,

long lists of things you should have done, or could have said.

But here, now, at this crossing, which way to go . . .?

Down that jeep-track over there to the city below,

or follow this ridgeline up into the pathless country

of lord-knows-where?

Which way to go, which way to go . . .?

The sound of rushing water rises into the cool morning air.

It’s time to go now,

Time to go.

QUIET WATER

Sitting. Waiting.
The quiet sound of morning water
fed by meager snowfields.

A plane flies up the steeply-walled valley,
the sound of its motor wrapping round itself,
beating, fighting against its own echo—then
tapering off in a low, harmonious hum.

So civilizations come and go,
each in their own time, each in their own way,
yet the sound of their final silence is always the same.

A chickadee goes tja tja tja tja
flittering from fir to fir, same lively little bird
of the fiddle-top spruce in the Alps.

The quiet water flows with flashes,
sparkles, faint stars of morning light,
fed by meager snowfields.
Sitting. Waiting.

The final silence is always the same.

LAND ABOVE THE TREES

Paradise only lasts a day.
Let Time stretch out to eternity.
Let Space open up to the stars.

The new ice you found at the spring this morning is already gone.
See that Lily over there: it only lasts an hour.

Write that love letter you’ve been waiting for, for a thousand years.
Figure out those equations that Einstein knew he had wrong.

The sound of the rushing water mixes with the late summer wind.
As it always has; as it always has.

Your next life can begin another day.

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