|We make the sun burn between us free as mountain air
A warm wide rock to lie on
Deeper than any bed, a pleasure nest innocent as maidenhair
The turk’s cap and columbine, we make them bloom
Wild orchid and lobelia
Never more pure nor alive than the moment trout leap
And quail fly up the ascending fern—
Our lithe bodies intertwine with the afternoon
A venerable wave of heat—
Sixty feet from the top, sixty feet the waters of Salmon Creek
Falling in clearlight-sunfire cascading into summer!
Oh the idiotic idea of time, the shoe left behind, a leaf
A stone, a blossom, a cone
Stuffed in sack, taken back, mementos of what we cannot own.
But if Eden were ever an earthly place
It is here, and we make it, we make it wasteland or home.
(for J. 2016)
© Rayn Roberts