We live between two fault lines, not far (geologically speaking) from the traveling hot spot that created Yellowstone National Park. i love that my name is buried within the black glass rock ‘obsidian’. i feel deeply connected to the earth’s innermost secrets, although not directly or consciously privy to their insights. So writing, in some ways, helps that magma rise through me, where eventually the rocks expose themselves in poems or stories. Here’s the one (slightly revised, cuz one is never satisfied) that Ravi Shankar was referring to in my post a few weeks ago.
He wakes me with that
bull elk fall serenade
and i scramble through my tent flap
into a Yellowstone meadow so frosted
in the vanilla milkshake moonlight
it could be snow.
Glimpsing movement, he keenly
gazes my way.
Another bugle erupts
steaming over obsidian stream .
Musk stinks like moldering swamp.
His thick neck carries
a wild architecture over grassy
stars, while slow
Behind the mousy river rustling by
he now holds an easeful silence,
and like a famished trout, i gulp
the riddle he casts
into this molten glow.