Mt. Drea

Her form is unforgettable. This body of rock
reclining on the horizon arcs a shoulder, bares

a hip, communicating something to the youth
in us—we seem to see the prospect of a lover,

the shadow of a parent. Yet she is neither; she hasn’t
woken to the age of beings who conceive,

and never will. An ocean of unconsciousness
compacted into an opaque glacier… Is she

a god? Whole clans have been forgiven believing so;
now holiness has earned her a reign of holidays.

And the silence she imparts to all is her attempt
to slumber just below the gravid sky we’ve dreamt.