Geoffrey Rises (a revision of #3)
Geoffrey rises
in the spectral dawn
from his bed of tamarack boughs,
and, like an unbidden ghost, or guest,
walks with reverence
to the eddying cold waters of
Pinnacle Creek.
The shallow edge of the stream
is frozen into a latticework of crystals,
iridescent,
even in the grayness of dawn,
bright as a crystalline patina
of pale-purple fluorite -
the thickness of Buddha’s eyelid.
The water falls, always,
and forever,
from the top of the ragged,
glaciated mountain,
to an unknown Tethy’s sea.
His fingers grow numb.
He has dreamt too long.
He feels his flesh
draw tighter to the bone,
his mind contract.
As he brews a cup of tea
he listens to the song of dawn birds
as they conjure sunlight into being.
He hopes they will succeed.
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