in North America.
Here's a little piece composed this week next
to a late night fire . . .
I read the papers of faraway places,
dreaming of open vistas free of noise,
far from the buffeting roar of traffic,
surrounded with the promise of clear, rushing
I dream of sharp, wild, broken ridgelines,
of men no longer at war with fir forests,
of pines growing flat against granite rocks
searching for the spirit which lives in thin
I search for people who have not yet given up,
who have stopped blaming governments for conflict,
who wish to fashion new flutes and stringed viols
from the tears of slopes once stripped clear of all
I wander without peace, in search of peace.
"That is your star", said the reader of cards.
"That is the place where you are", said the tree.
For a thousand thousand years, I will not give up that
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Photograph by Cliff Crego © 2006