poems & pictures
Granite towers,
sentinels of the past,
warners of these days.
The child phantom
wanders through the hollow,
to collect its fragments
and put them together again.
Back to its present,
as ridges and clouds
officiate the rite of yore.
No sound from the glacial basin,
nor from the sloping conifer forest.
No drifting voice.
No echo.
Everything
makes itself
whisper, word, cry.
Anything ambient
betokens the intangible
and speaks by its appearance.
And the water still runs downhill.
First published in Poesia (USA)