Poet: Tracy Mitchell
A lilt, a curl
like a thread of smoke
from morning fire
ravels from a distance
branches toward light.
Below this risen hillside
the river beams broad, inviting;
open like peapods.
The air smells green and blue
like lime and vegetable broth
over and again.
The trail drifted so deep, didn’t it,
that rush and gurgle of the rapids
lost themselves to the flutes,
sometimes only drums and rain.
For now the mosaic glows so perfect
spackled edges assert no burden.
Pick up the chalice, the gauntlet
the grail –
There be rain in the forest tonight.