Wapack Down

After I’ve walked up the auto road

the descent from Pack Monadnock

on the blue-blazed Wapack Trail

almost defeats me. Boulders

and scree, ledge and a trail marked

so poorly I almost tumble

down a hundred-foot gap in the sky.

Ice patches foster bone breaks,

while harsh November sunlight

casts shadows deeper than the eye

in its naked glory can plumb.

My skeleton revolts in its bag

of flesh. Muscles knot and suffer

a lack of elasticity.

The slope feels impractical,

as though the entire mountain

might sluice down to the highway

in a heap of gray apologies.

I don’t remember this trail

feeling so difficult underfoot,

but I haven’t plied it for years.

The last grave stretch of cliff-walking

confuses me so badly I lose

the string of blue blazes and doubt

I can bushwhack so grim a stretch

of bare and almost vertical ledge.

I retrace my steps and recover

the marked trail and stumble down

the last quarter-mile to the road

just as the sun retracts its favors

and allows a sheet of whispers

to slip over the leafless woods.

Tomorrow I’ll try ascending

this slab of primal geometry

by the same steep blue-blazed route.      

Then maybe I’ll recover myself

somewhere along the trail

where I left my youthful ego

cursing the icy rock and claiming

dominion it doesn’t deserve.

In the Wash of the Solar Eclipse

You want to know how I feel

in the wash of the solar eclipse?

Walking by the marsh I’m sure

the crickets are onto something.

Their song becomes more brittle

as sunlight fades and shadows

lose their edges. I feel like

joining their chorus, but rubbing

my legs together for sound

has never worked well, even

when wearing corduroy trousers,

so I’ll remain as silent as snow.

You want to know if doubts

about the depth of the universe

and the time lapse of galaxies

ruffle my dreams of women

lurching around on horseback

or sifting heaps of pages torn

from the world’s cruelest scriptures.

No, but last night I dreamt

that you asked my wife to bake

a cake that was evenly moist

with no raw spots in the middle.

Yes, I know you’re my wife

and also an expert baker,

but the threat of the eclipse

shaped this dream. What threat?

The loss of faith in sky gods?

Worry that the moon will stick

to the sun and extinguish it?

The dark surfs over the sky

with a stark and deep indifference                                    

that for a moment hushes

the crickets. Stars wink and blink,

out too early. I feel too small

to inhabit this expanded space;

but as the moment passes and light

ebbs back into our life I almost

taste the lovely cake you baked

to feed both my ego and id.

Sweeping Away the Spiders

At the waterfall, raw ledge

grimaces with pain. Ferns thrive

in the huge geologic wound.

The rock shadow can’t darken

the exuberance of the foam,

but it deepens by dimming the pool.

From the footbridge, we admire

the clash of plane and perspective,

the falls angling past the rock-face,

the stream flowing off somewhere

in a huff of nodding hemlock.

You admire even more the spiders

webbing the lattice of truss

supporting the bridge. Spiders

with their octet of limbs busy

mapping the world to their needs.

Spiders charting the atmosphere

to ensnare the tiny innocents

they drain of fluids and discard.

You see the webs as rococo

décor imposed on vacancy,

while I read them as evil texts

that apply as cruelly as scripture.

Here comes a youngster with broom

to brush the webs away. You’re shocked

that a summer job could involve

wiping the natural slate clean.

Who has ordered this boy to wield

his broom so people like me

don’t feel threatened by spiders

dividing the world among themselves?

You can’t watch the carnage so

we head for the car, leaving

the waterfall pulsing, the ferns

waving, and the spiders crying

as their fey architecture fails.