These memories, seemingly fragile shoots,
An image, here or there, of rushing rivers,
Densely shadowed woods, of treeless mountains
Stretching toward this great gorge. Columbia,
The means by which all water drains out
Of the west, from Utah down to Oregon,
By way of bleak Astoria. I stand upon
The basalt cliffs, and stare into the pools
Below. The water swirls. The empty hills
Suggest that I have reached the moon,
And I don't care. I'd hoped to catch you
Here, to have you stand with me upon
These cliffs, to colonize this satellite,
To keep me warm as I address a lifeless
Planet, knowing only that the one I left
Left me with empty arms, and this one,
With you may, instead, provide me
With the nutrients to nurture life,
And love, and good. These are not
Things which grow unaided. They are
Fragile shoots.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 65 times
Written on 2018-08-27 at 03:57

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A vantage point from where the readers can see the desolation in the environment and despondency in the speaker's mind. And I also like the repetition of the image of "fragile shoots."