Sunday, May 24, 2015


By the time 
you return to the mountain 
across faint trails,
there may only be a hill.
Now it stands 
with blurred edges 
in the billowing clouds 
but is still too soft 
to be considered 
a fact,
to be etched 
in the blue and green atlas.
But still you follow 
the snow melt stream 
as it diminishes 
from the source, 
cutting striped canyons 
into the skin 
of your globe; 
the forgotten foundation
of expressions.

-Robert L. Jackson III