POETRY
Posted: Mon Sep 16, 2013 5:51 pm
All Along the Spine of the Siskiyous, by Charles Carreon
It's a soft-focus night, moonless and mute.
Truck-light on the freeway
filters through gentle rain drifting
from the mountains,
cloaking the valley.
In the upper reaches of the valley,
a southward-running ridge,
a finger of forest reaching
into the drylands of California.
Winds stream by,
Stirring the tall trees,
Bearing a harvest of clouds.
To the north -- coolness and moisture.
In the south -- valleys filled with dry grass.
There is tension between the two.
They lie next to each other,
all along the spine of the Siskiyous,
everything touching, licking each other
with tongues of clouds.
In the morning,
The fruit of their love
is fresh-fallen snow.
It's a soft-focus night, moonless and mute.
Truck-light on the freeway
filters through gentle rain drifting
from the mountains,
cloaking the valley.
In the upper reaches of the valley,
a southward-running ridge,
a finger of forest reaching
into the drylands of California.
Winds stream by,
Stirring the tall trees,
Bearing a harvest of clouds.
To the north -- coolness and moisture.
In the south -- valleys filled with dry grass.
There is tension between the two.
They lie next to each other,
all along the spine of the Siskiyous,
everything touching, licking each other
with tongues of clouds.
In the morning,
The fruit of their love
is fresh-fallen snow.