The
oddity of this meandering life
Is only emphasized
by its failure
Of metaphor: the long
slow passage
From too early autumnal
nights,
Meager harvests, brief
Indian summer
Into withering winter,
ice in the
Marrow, grind of joints
too frozen
To slide, cheekbones
sadder than granite.
Others climbed uphill
toward the sun,
Found basking places,
came to rest,
But I moved past them,
sought glaciers
In which to imprison
youth, numb its
Edges against the pain
of will, not yet
Tired of boredom as
the boon companion
Of incarceration, still
comforted by the
Crack and shatter of
sledge on stone.
Strange that the wind
becomes thinner
As oxygen fails, that
rainbows survive
The heights, not caring
the form of water.
How could I know life
would linger,
That in its briefest
season
The thawing margins
of the summit
Would reach to plump
out scant seed, impel
It to seek the source
that scented
Warmer, still-rising
air with the
Faint bittersweet of
butterfly scales,
The pungent tears of
spring's first storms.
The body faintly wishes
to resist this
Journey toward gentler
repose, but
The way lies downward,
daisy-marked,
Across slopes of talus
and scree.
The feet already find
hewn pebbles that
Have rolled this way
before me, bearing
Faint impressions of
decades' labor:
A few have been pocketed
as keepsakes,
Reminders of how little
endures.
The heart has revived
to the point where
Milestones are no longer
beneath notice:
Yesterday I paused
at the first and was
Struck dumb at finding
another's seasons
Stitched up and left
as a wayfarer's gift:
After a night beneath
that cloak, I've
Shed my tatters and
wrapped it about me.
It speaks of solace
and longing
On the road to summer.