Wednesday, March 27, 2013

I Have Yet

Cornfield stubble frozen,

Stretched out

From wretched elm skeleton

Gawking over yellow-gray ice of drowned grass.


When will we reach the mountains?


Mountain’s mass presses and molds

The land around into curve and fold and rise.

Birch and spruce tell me we have come.

No straight lines.


Here, it is easy to recline,

But never shall I rest;

I have yet to climb that mountain,

I have yet to pass the test.






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