A stumblebum in scree.
– James Galvin (“The Heart”)
We write poetry, yet there are no rules,
no maps, no guarantees on our circumambulation
of loose time stacked, moment upon moment with
a stray epiphany. Traversing the fractured granite
boulders big as hay bales in Dead Man’s Canyon
to fish upstream, I found an old blue bottle
intact, placed it upon a rock for my way back
to camp on Roaring River nearly forty years ago.
The blue upon the speckled gray was like a beacon
that I forgot casting down the other side. The heart
is like that in the mountains, always leaping ahead,
easily sidetracked by reason. Surely someone
found and packed it home full of memories, perhaps
even placed it on the mantle above their fire—
my fragile blue bottle of hope for all I cannot see.
drycrikjournal 