3163. TALLOW

TALLOW

Markers along the treeside, high atop the hills;
where crested woodpeckers yet sing and the
high-vaulted fly-hawks soar. A long and
patterned time below. The land rolls on
before us : rocks as old as what is said are
still lined atop these ancient heaps - old lines
and scratched marks of this and that entreaty
from a hundred years before. I can hear the
bold echoes yet running. A distant light
marks the curvature of this Earth.
-
My mind and my vision drip - as a waxen
image too close to the Sun; softening and losing
shape, sliding down into inconsequential forms
and meanings without meaning. My soul talks
back and somehow yet I know I am alive.
Far, far off, just where I can no longer see,
I sense the distant river curving away.