Mountain poems, July 2010

After a sleepless night

at Islands Lake in Desolation Wilderness,

the near-full moon goes down

around four-thirty

leaving the sky to the stars

before the slow turn of light

calls the lake

from the dark, and the fish

for that careful

touch of lips

**

The sun runs luminous

through the highest puffs of clouds

but leaves the lower to float,

faceless shadows

passing over surrounding peaks

whose west facing slopes

remain still, untouched and cooled.

Standing at the edge of the lake too,

I think to chant,

but demur—what have I to add

to all of this?

Then, encouraged by the flutter of wings

from flowered brush to either side,

in lowered tones I speak

the Buddha’s name,

and watch the wind drop to the water

in whispered silver ripples

that spread to the shore

beneath my feet,

quietly lapping light.