~

Hole in the Wall, first morning

Morning fog lays on the valley 

over Bowman, 

over all but Lady Hawk and us.

I watch as you walk to the edge 

of the falls below. I watch as you take fishing line 

from your pocket and lasso the fog. 

You hoist it into the sky as a child 

teases a kite into the breeze. 

You raise the fog until it becomes a cloud. 

I put grounds in the pot, more wood on the fire. 

The two of you dance a dance to music only you can hear. 

When the smell of coffee reaches you, you bow.

'Merci, Monsieur Nuage,' releasing the line, 'pour la danse.'

Hole in the Wall, first night

Burnt out on poetry 

the campfire embers die, 

which lets the stars shine. 

Without words comes silence, 

and then, when silence vanishes 

comes the sound of wind off the glacier.

Nothing compares, the sound of cold— 

now, without fire, without words, cold—

In the black of a starlit night, 

dwarfed by our surroundings, 

humbled by our insignificance, 

glorying in the privilege 

of being alone, together, in such a place— 

falling softly into the warmth of one another.

Hole in the Wall, homage to Rudi Matt

No wind, snow falling straight and thick, 

yet the gibbous moon 

through the clouds illuminates the falling flakes. 

It is hard to imagine being more alone, 

more isolated, more— 

defenseless. 

I am not alone, his spirit is with me. 

If this keeps up 

they will find my bones come spring. 

Or, what the mice leave of my bones. 

I crawl into my sleeping bag, 

listening to the non-wind, the mountain voices 

in their growly, haughty voices telling stories 

of a red shirt fluttering on the mountain’s summit.

Hole in the Wall, summer storm

We find ourselves 

where we take ourselves. 

This magic carpet of wildflowers 

does not fly, it is our will, step by step, 

that brings us here. 

You lay on your back, one leg crossed 

over a bent knee, swinging freely, 

a blade of sweet grass between your lips 

in contemplation of ripening clouds. 

In the distance thunder treads, 

advancing footfalls of Monsieur Nimbus. But for now 

we are here, in forfeit of nothing. 

We reap the reward of our effort— 

we are not children, we know what we are about. 

~

Fat drops break our reverie. 

Fat, juicy drops 

worthy of a quick dash to the tent 

and shelter from the storm— 

but no, this ionized air is to be embraced, 

and if Monsieur Nimbus should be mates with Thor 

then there is no hope, we are lost. 

Wet we are, cold and shivering, wetter we will be. 

But we have come for this, 

it will not kill us, or it will. 

Here we are penniless, blood diamonds 

could not save us, but this is rich. 

We have come too far for retreat. 

We embrace the storm, and each other. 

~

In the aftermath we take stock— 

no lightning strikes, no hypothermia, 

nothing that a fire will not cure. 

But wet wood does not burn. 

And it is snowing. 

Somewhere Jack London chuckles. 

We know that friction causes heat. 

We need tinder. 

We need two bodies that will ignite when joined. 

In the belly of the beast we know. 

Inuit know. !Kung know. 

It is within us. 

One storm has passed, 

the next will be of our making. 

~

Pause a moment. 

We are not children, we know what we are about. 

We are not capricious like the gods, 

nor subject to their petty whims. 

We are not actors brought forth for their amusement. 

Strength and will brought us here, desire compels us to the tent.

What is at stake is of incalculable value,

what we may lose is irretrievable.

Will the sun reward our passion or our innocence? 

Chilled to the bone, cut by the wind,

in desperate need of warmth, 

we weigh the primal urge with reason.

The Hot Tears of a Parent

'From whining wind and colder 

Grey sea I wrap him warm 

And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder 

And boyish arm.' 

— James Joyce, 'On the Beach at Fontana' 

When I walk the beach 

among the roiling waves 

I will think of you. 

When I stop 

at the low-tide pool 

I will wish you were near. 

When you are near 

I will reach for your hand. 

When you are too old 

for my hand 

I will understand 

and be content with your presence. 

When the weight 

of my parenting is too much 

I will close my eyes 

and think of waves. 

When cold waves crash 

round my feet 

when I feel the ocean pull 

I will resist 

that I might return to you. 

Long after 

the constellations 

shift their familiar pattern 

the atoms that were you and me 

will be entwined. 

I will never let go.

The Suicide Wind of South Dakota

The old man sits outside the gas station, killing time, 

Waiting for people like me to stop, to begin a conversation. 

We talk about the wind which is blowing straight and hard. 

“It drives men crazy, ” he tells me, “drives them to suicide.” 

I drive west. This land is arid, it is worn and rough and raw. 

The wind is unchecked, it has an edge, it is relentless. 

The stark words of the old man begin their work on me. 

The white painted farm houses and out-buildings I pass 

Are scattered and appear thin-walled; each farm an outpost 

Lost in proportion to the vastness that lies between. 

This is lonely country, it invites thoughts of lives so fragile 

That wind might bring them down. I doubt the truth of it. 

There is more to it, there always is. This is not easy land, 

I can see that. A vast sky meets a vast horizon, leaving 

A thin line to eke out an existence. The trials of such land 

Seem obvious. Time and distance must be measured 

By a different standard. Lives may be in torment, interior 

Dramas played out. But to blame the wind, it is too Biblical. 

These are farmers and ranchers. These are women that 

Work in courthouses, that birth and bake, that balance 

The books. These are children that ride yellow buses, 

That sneak cigarettes, that watch their teams play football 

Come Friday night and vie for State. The old man is wrong. 

If there is madness here, there is madness everywhere. 

One old man’s words are suspect. He has a grudge. 

His crops failed. His wife left him. Life passed him by while 

He pumped gas. I roll the windows down. I hear a shot. 

I see a man beside his barn fall to the ground, a shotgun 

Fall from his hands, the back of his head gone, a patch 

Of red splattered against faded, whitewashed boards. 

No. Lives may be in torment and the hardships real— 

To blame the wind, no. Perhaps the wind is an excuse 

Invented to avoid saying that which is better left unsaid, 

An explanation which rolls off the tongue and sets easy. 

No. I see only white painted farm houses and out-buildings. 

I am a young and driving west. I do not believe in the wind.

Spring

Yesterday’s kitten

now the stalking lioness—

quiet as a May wind

10/29/16 for Eunkyo

~