FoundlingReview

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We are alone

for miles, it seems,

steps bedded in earth and wood.

Fine rain stirs the leaves in eddies;

the air is drenched

with new green.

Through the silence--

a growing carillon--

clear rivulets of ice and sky

stream under bramble mosaics.

Further along the trail,

bear prints mark wildness and uncertainty:

the sacred and the earthly

both elemental here.

The path continues, grounding our focus

on slippery rock, roots, and grasses.

We stop to watch

as vaporous white flows through valleys

shifting fir and hemlock

shifting mountain and lake.

Clouded foothills are mirrored

back to the horizon

and then, slowly, comes

our own transformation

immersed

in this opalescent light.

    


Lynn Wankowski devotes time to poetry and hiking country hills. She
and her husband live near Chicago, where there are no hills but a
variety of great architecture.


The poem recalls a walk my cousin and I enjoyed several years ago
within Snoqualmie Pass. I was amazed by the quiet, spiritual quality
of the location, surrounded by mist, rain, and lush green growth. The
bear prints on the trail also made me realize just how remote this
area was—and the need for caution. I felt privileged to experience the
beauty of true wilderness.


 









 





  


Copyright 2009