A CHANGE OF MOOD
(In Pinkham Notch)
Winter nights can be too lonely
To prolong. I’m off the bunk
And on the trail when the first blue glow
Lanterns the snow, and the last
Daystar flashlights over the ridge.
I hear the falls before I reach them:
Dark volcanic seethings
Unseen beneath a polar carapace:
Placid gravemounds of snow
And brittle veils of frozen spray.
The lodge windows are fireflies below,
Heatless and harmless. Above
The next switchback a rosy white
Spectre looms, brightens:
Alpine snowfields fired by sunrise.
Now my heels crunch stairsteps
Down the path. I relish
The bounding pawprints of a weasel,
The cascade’s vigorous mirth,
The parade of pink clouds up the notch.
Leave a Reply