Four apple trees, boughs planed, hover shoulder-height above the ground, trunks twisted, coiled like dancers at the moment of a pivot. If these trees were to move, make their turns, reread the grooves creasing their bark, their red fruit would fly off into the dark and scatter far over the grass — like beads of...
It leans a little, tilting north toward the Bridger Range, its cracked, weathered boards wearing their best silver patina. In its uselessness, the west wind refrains from taking it down, only teases the old barn with frequent gusts that rattle loose the rusted tin roof, blowing some of it down the hill &...
Pale Morning Dun in June streamwater run Clouds pass above the gorge darkpined, steepsided down the rocksmooth flow and valleyshadows shifting turn darkwater bright as gold Pale Morning Dun the Rainbows wait deep down in darkgreen pool beside the slick beyond the rock greyspeckled flags that hold and flutter in the brook The hatch is on Pale Morning Dun Emergers...
Both sky & mountain wearing the same coat today Faces lost in breath Yellow leaves drifting on soon to be frozen pond Ships at sea of clouds Slipping on the ice Old man wonders: Is this my last time hearing birds? Snow-deepened night sky Each flake exactly alike: All melt in the end Pushing through the gray Crow...
Guardians on a hill Ever a watchful eye. Spraying branches to fill An ever-enveloping sky. What history have they seen with many a passers-by? Cruelness of the white sheen Finally releasing buds of spring. Industrious inhabitants of fur Stocking up in hidden holes. The giants still, pausing to hear The inner workings of their soul. Autumn comes...
Carving trenches from ageless grass is a lonely ordeal beneath the far gray. A careless horse will die in a ditch so digging them wide will spare us the grief. We toil in the earth in an aging machine, no less weathered by time than the skull of a steer. Under...
Mid lake, I rest the oars across the hull to watch a father in his yard pushing the son on a swing — each dependent on the others’ motion, a metronome of affection. I allow myself to drift in front of another yard — each a...
I help my father Quicken a pinewood blaze Against the falling night. The kerosine stove exhales With its hot oily breath And mingles With the woodsmoke And two days Of stale sweat. Lake water boils, Setting the pot lid chattering. Water For splintered ramen, Instant coffee, And hot chocolate From a crumpled Paper packet. Sitting on stern stones, I carefully nurse My tin cup While...
Winter Palette A silver palette Of subtle hues Softly tinted grays And Prussian blues A finely honed dawn Blush silver and peach An infinity of polished sky Mountains within reach Evening chills strike a Cold metallic horizon Purple clouds on a sea of ice Dashed with a splash of alizarin Jan Elpel is the author of five historical...
noun sleeping giant: We pass over the mountain’s back, ice licking the treads of our tires, our voices hushed. comforting companion: The mountain yawns but doesn’t shift. Its blankets of tired timber, salted greens, and browned sage wrap over its sleeping shoulders. We curl into the nook of its knees,...