Friday, April 24, 2009


You-Are-Here Pass

We’ve named the mountain passes,
fastened brass plaques where we stop
and sigh, but nothing in the natural world
remembers its name.

The wilderness answers to its own
wide spirit, counts any moment
like starlight that arrives unburdened
by the calculations of time.

“You are here” says a dot
on the map I unfold.
“You are not” says the rock
where I plant my foot.

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