The melting snow
she turns to falls through fissures in the rocks
as round the unseeing bend of the road
she opens up
the lake the sky reflected upon it
the soundtrack of the bitter wind
the travelers mind a moving floor
as we go over the wall.
I have seen her before
ancient but young
as you see her lava flows from a distance
rippling across hills of iron foam
begat the host of indian elders
who through their eyes that filled with smoke
dried their tears with a handful of branches
tossed upon the fire for a word
shorter then magnificent but longer
then the first eyes of sense beheld.
For she is older
older than the book that was passed down
from mouth to ear from mouth to ear
older than the parchment from a reed
older than the tattoos on the hallways of kings
where fire speaks in hisses and lightning leaps
before the one word of thunder speaks
she is older crouched and waiting.
From her highest peak
you see only the beginning
the wholeness of the world that god entrusts to no man
the comets dust with ancient trails.
into the distance
towards the mother of all things.