© 2014 Melissa Mylchreest
Measure the months
by rain, faltering sun,
the mountains' downdraft marking
the ebb and flow of days. All around us
the drumbeat of hours. All
of our ends come. Against it
we go on anyway.
In the in-between,
tiny gods forgotten and listening.
A run of coho. A tree
scarred for cambium.
The way our hands conjure fire.
Alchemy of rivers and earth.
What of the way the mind folds
back on itself? When the light in the hills
brings you elsewhere, who do you become?
Surely there is more to us.
Yesterday, the cranes gathered
the evening beneath their wings
and rode over the valley,
the string of them like the body
of a snake, their going an old
and holy thing.