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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I ICICLES fall from trees, molten with age, without memory - they stand aloof in their nakedness - they limber; like the gods terrified into silence, like tall brooding deities looming out of the fog: The forest hugs them carves them into stones, Etches them into the slow eastern landscape: rivers, hills the slow running water, times broken inscapes… The willows are burdened with ice the white shrouds of burial spread upon the earth's ravaged face; the eyes unseeing, the mouth unspeaking, a gust of wind proclaims the anger of immemorial ages; the cycle, the eternal ritual of mystical returns - The cypress - whitening - boneless; wearing her best habit, a pale green in the forest of ghosts - And so I walk through this windless night through the narrow imponderable road through the silence - the silence of trees - I hear not even the gust of wind I hear only the quiet earth, thawing underneath; I hear the slow silent death of winter - where the sun is yellowest. But above, Monadnock looms like some angry Moloch, her white nipple seizing the space drained of all milk... A she-devil beckoning to worshippers seductive - her arm stretching outwards - to this lonely pilgrim lost in the mist: Behold the school of wild bucks Behold the meeting of incarnate spirits - Behold the lost souls bearing tapers in rags of rich damask, Down Thomas - the saint of unbelievers - down the road to bliss Down to the red house, uncertain like a beggar's bowl hanging unto the cliff of withdrawn pledges, where the well is deepest... I have dared to live beneath the great untamed. To every good, to every flicker of stars along the pine shadows; To every tussle with lucid dusk, To every moonlit pledge, to every turn made to outleap silvery pollen, I have desired to listen - to listen - to the ripening of seasons.... Winter 2001 This is ONE of a continuing sequence.
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