near Cumberland Gap
is burning still,
and every glowing bush returns
in ritual blood and fire,
an offering on the altar
of a dying year.
We should hear our names
in scarlet flames of maple, poplar, alder;
instead, we hear the shift of embers,
observe the flash of pyracantha,
leaf mold ankle-deep as ash,
and a light that shines like amber.
Only the breath of a falling leaf
whispers in the smoky air.
Not far above the highway winds
with its faint and distant hum,
but here a mountain stream
thrums over rocks.
Once Cherokees, hunting,
followed this narrow trail.
Perhaps one rested on this boulder,
took off his moccasins,
removed a tiny stone,
listened to the roar of water.
These rocks are worn, ground by years,
just as time grinds everything away.
and yet we make a path
to show the way we came.
Clean and swift, colder than death,
the icy spring pours
from the heart of the mountain,
bearing the leaves, small canoes.
In moonlight two birds call:
"Here I am; here I am."
"Where are you?"
Vines loop down like garlands,
swing softly in the wind.
The air is cedar-scented.
Above these ancient trees
dark skies string
the shining wampum of the night,
far-flung stars that form
a warrior's outline,
his bow poised always,
aiming toward the moon.
Indian |
