 | The Sunday Poem: Sierras from AboveSeptember 10th, 2006 |
From heights we learn that nothing’s very high.
These seams on earth, as raised as stitching, are
The tyranny of gravity made wry.
The mountains: hands, folded and folded, turf
Brown hand upon hand upon hand twined overlapping,
Quiescent, senescent under blanket earth.
Softback, spineback, brokeback, extruded round;
All life, from here, is mold discoloring
Rock, a growth that could be wiped away.
There is a loneliness where aquifers
Reach spindled fingers in the lightning of
Erosion, and do not touch.
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