A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature: over 400,000 monthly users
Gray rain seeps through the fall of played-out clouds, loops among hills, ragged mountains; flexes and thins cut, contoured fields. This here— nearly parallel to another September when I, after tramping aged ley lines, leaned into standing stones that gently mocked my bent. O! I was in love with hardness, rocks tilting over landscape’s green edge, words riven with meaning! I thought (mindless I) that I still owned some forever, and so walked right into those stones, touched their weighted flanks, shifted their quiet as if they were my true grandfathers, good old men who had only my best in their storied senses; showed in gray and grizzled faces deep listening. I wasn’t the first, last— how many others waited there; forgot what they were given until, in some gray-green season those moments, like gouged-out uplands, reach, returned—haggard and lonely gift?
Copyright 2020 Bertha Rogers