It’s not your mountain
but I almost expect
to meet you here
I think you have taken a long late evening walk
Your heavy shoes glisten with dew
I hear your footsteps pause on the dirt road
and I know you are picking out
the dark mass of the sleeping
mountain from the dark
mass of night and testing the heaviness of each
Your hands are small but they know weights and measures
You are a connoisseur of boundaries
You loved the bears
because they pass between
leaving their stories
in fat pudding turds on the grass
Here it’s raspberries they’re after not our
sour Vermont apples No matter You will find them
When they hoot in courtship
you always hoot back
more owl than bear
They don’t mind They always answer you
And tonight I imagine you’re out waiting up for them
by the berries, which is why you don’t cross
the dew-sopped lawn
don’t press open the
warped screen door
of the kitchen where I sit late by a single glowing bulb
—
For more information on Rosanna Warren, please click here: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/188
Many thanks to Alison McGhee for her thoughtful curation of these beautiful poems.
—
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