The mountain crests
in the cradle between night and day;
the brilliant moon
making metals of the rocks
and trees, the path a
thin trail of silver.
Glaring pitch-dark against the
beam of my headlamp, sending chilly waves through me,
knots of ice under heel.
A crowd of us loop through
the trees to glimpse
the first light of new year’s day,
voices catching
across the woods.
It feels secret and lucid
to be out in the night,
and my breath misting white.
Like a translucent dream,
something to trail your fingers through.
I want all at once to be
deep, deeply alone,
sunk into the silver chains
of the trees, beside
moon pools in spills of rock.
I think of Jack Kerouac,
in the middle of the wintry night,
sitting on a floor of snow
to meditate and think wise-man thoughts;
and the ecstasy he found in this,
the solitude kept in the company of trees.
Finding solace in the
star-songs,
truths of whittled history
whistled through the
bare bones of
their breasts.