Of Patagonia
When you ask about my trip, what will I say?
That the river waters are milky azure, surging from melting glaciers
Glaciers pressing through granite masses
So huge they might be clouds held tightly in valleys of fearful peaks.
I’ll mention a rolling waterfall, not tumbling or churning,
But a smooth turquoise roll without break or boulder to mar its perfect curve.
The frequent rainbows.
The brilliant stars in an upside down sky.
I could talk about those things.
I’ll show photos of soaring peaks shelved with hanging blue ice,
Of towers of rocks named “hilt” “horn” “sword” “blade”.
But when we talk, I will not speak of the slope of his shoulders
As pretty as the angle of the late summer sun there.
Or the tilt of his head when our eyes sent messages
That others did not receive
Or the linger of his casual touch,
surprising as the stirring wind in that place
A wind so wild it smashed the lake into perfect circles
And roused it to spinning spouts
Sent rushing across white capped waves.
I will not tell you of the heat from him.
An encounter as fantastic as the place itself.
Arousing the curiosity of noone
To remain as untraceable as the path of a gliding condor.
About the other things, I will tell.
Until I swirl my wine glass and suggest
We do the dishes and let out the dogs.
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