Dear Friend

DEAR FRIEND

at continent’s end. 

I strive new in the big day!

The western sky burns boredom

as a halcyon wind makes the impossible.

The river goes on like an endless Russian novel,

through the pines, to a deeper place, 

in the mountain where winter starts first. 

A trail, worn deep by summer adolescence leads

to tomorrow. To the glacier that crawls south

where water is the only light, we walk far into

ourselves—to rinse ourselves of ourselves

for the deep woods that await. 

In search of the lost

of all we seem to be.