MUTED SNAKE, April Light & ON PATHS, selected poems

from ON PATHS

THE SLIP

Coming down

a steep icy path,

a slip instantly corrected,

forgotten, moving on.

Why can’T. I live like that?

ONE MORNING

One morning, the mountain farmer goes out
to milk his goats and never comes back;

A quiet stream leaps from the edge of a high
granite cliff and disappears into the late
summer air;

Sitting in an alpine meadow, more flowers
than grass, the sound of delicate bells
rings out,

wave after wave,

from the metal which sleeps in rocks.

THE PROFESSOR

Red socks tucked into

impeccable gray-green

knickers,

relaxed, confident,

with the refined fingers

of a concert pianist,

tapping with his cane,

he gives just the right

emphasis to his last remark:

“Beautiful mountains, these . . .
But, too many rocks!”

THE OTHER WAY AROUND

Walking down with his lambs,
about twenty of them, all male,
still covered with the crusty manure
of the winter barn,

round as a bear, dressed from
head to toe in 2nd-hand army
wool that he wears like fur,
standing in the middle of the
cold, fast-flowing stream,
big-bearded smile, he kicks
the lambs across, one by one,
puffing on his pipe all the while.

He tells me:

“My wife used to come here
with the goats as a child.”

“Once, they brought up
a priest from the village below
to bless this spring.”

“She’s always said, it’s the other way
around—it’s the spring that blesses us.”

THE BOTANICAL GARDENS

(1)

How nice: There’s Gentian!

And Anenome. Old friends—

on paid vacation.

(2)

After a while, I’ve noticed

that I tend to read

the signs first.

PILGRIMS

Not

yet

far

from

home

the

full

bus

drives

straight

across

the spring

with healing waters

without

a

name.

THE SPRING

The cowherd pointed
on the map and said,

“If you can find it,
you must visit this spring.
The water there is very mysterious.”

“Years ago, they wanted to sell it,
but it burst the bottles—
every time.”

THE WELL

At the village center
a woman fetches water
from a well.

She tells me,

“All my life
the flow of this water
has never changed.

“It was constant during the war
and when my sons did not return,
and it was constant during the time
they built the road and then the dam.

“Even during the Winter of ‘51
it did not freeze.

“But last Spring,
for the first time in my life,
it was silent of seven days
and then ran muddy for
weeks after that.

“This well
never did that
before.”

EVERY VALLEY REMEMBERS

Two neighbors working,
tapping out the blade,
the complementary rhythms of
2s and 3s.

Distance and a summer breeze
do strange things to sound,

the sharp tang of heavy hammer
on anvil planted on heavy rock,

the delicate edge moves slowly
round the tapping of the blade,

a new moon moving from East
to West.

Higher up the mountain, silver
consonants ricochet off nameless
steep granite walls . . .

Wide awake, noon rest finished,
these sounds—were not made today.

HERE

On the way,
many beautiful camps
offer themselves for the night.

But to know,
when to keep walking and
when to stay,

and, after stopping,
to know without a doubt
that this place, where one stands,

here

I am at home.

| download mp3 ON PATHS, selected |

| download pdf of score of my harp music featured, MIST ON SNOWY MOUNTAIN |

The avian soloist featured above is the Old World Blackbird (Turdus merula),
related to the NA Swainson, Hermit & Spirit Thrushes, and
the European musician of musicians.