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ON PINE-COVERED HILLS

I am familiar
           with pines, pine-scent, grass,
           rocks, grey dandelions,
           and lascivious rose-hips
           redder than Eve's lips.
Today is clear
           and I have climbed a cold highway
           toward sun-blue country
           and seen (lodged on pine boughs),
           yesterday's snow wind-sifted
           over a fainting landscape.
I could die here
           in this lovely place
           under this colonnade of pines,
           fall on cold rocks
           in a gravelly, weedy ditch,
           and after the final muscular twitch, 
           the terminal rattle in my throat,
           singing birds might fly over me,
           unnoticing, pine needles
          (obedient slaves of time), drop
           upon me, indifferent
           to the sinew-slackened tatter
           of bones and clothing
           they decorate.
And I might not be found
           ever . . . it would not be so bad
           to lie here like that
           but today, climbing in thin blue air
           with nowhere behind me - 
           there's no need to go.


      

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Copyright 1989 by Mildred A. Rose,

all rights reserved.
Originally published by The Music House Press.
No part of this collection may be reproduced,
except in short reviews, without the
author's permission.

Feb 08, 2012, 06:22 AM CST

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