Home in the Wilderness

I. Dear Estes,

If it had been an old man

with a white beard,

voice of rust, skin tanned

by wind, eyes

catacombs where hide

the images of Great Beasts,

fairy dances, and

secret stars,

on the mountain,

I would have asked him

why, when trucks roll past,

does he shutter, clench

his shoulders towards

the Sun?

And he would say:

“within the crags,

near the treeline, I found

in wandering one day

past the trails, the vestibule—

—a gilded hollow, where

the mountain keeps her storms, as jealously

as human lovers…keeps them tight

her baubles, cast in glass

cloud and rain and lightly, fraught

upon a leash. And they saw me, and reached

to the sky, and when the mountain sighed

they poured with the fury

of ten thousand horses

cresting dust and fire

across the plain.”

but all I see is a sign, that remarks

on the possibility of storms,

advises me to turn back

in inclement weather, but

never says another word,

when I carry on

instead.

II. Dear Emerald Lake

The man sitting

on the fallen log

near the shores of the lake

said, upon noticing my shirt,

that he saw Zeppelin in ’69, said

Robert Plant sang like a bird,

and I, too young to verify,

smiled back, though I wanted to ask

if it was the same bird that was perched

on the barren tree, too high above

sea level to bloom her leaves.

But could still leer

into the green-blue water,

encircled by kindling,

like an egg, incubated

in a cradle of rocks

beneath

a cloudless

sky.

III. Dear Dream Lake

When I circled back

To Dream Lake,

The hikers had already cleared

As the late afternoon

Stormed onward

Through the cumulonimbus clouds

Behind the peaks.

If I saw a shimmer

Of a purple shirt

And flowers

Perched

In long hair,

Fade through the evergreens

And the green left over

From the ascent

Towards the cold

Of the Sun

It only rippled

In its reflection

Across the otherwise still

Water.

And if I heard

a breathless song

Sung through pursed lips

In chorus with a cold

Autumn morning’s rain,

Its echo flew,

Like Icarus, too high

And I only heard

The silence—

—less aching in the wayward

mountain lakes

Than in the warmth

Of a single bed

Alone

On a cold,

Late morning.

IV. Dear Restaurant on Top of the World

The couple knew

that the altitude was too high

for hiking—risk of nausea,

Headaches, dizziness.

make sure to drink fluids

to stay hydrated

(but no alcohol)

not advised for those

with heart conditions,

diabetics,

pregnant women.

They read the signs, felt the air

exsanguinate

in the mouths,

saw the drivers trekking

slowly, the hikers pausing

every minute

to acclimate to

the altitude.

But they knew

the restaurant

on top of the world

waited

in snow

balanced

on a ledge

and looking down

at the still point

of the world

that turned

for everyone

but them.

Sincerely,

A traveler.