Melting snow steams into atmosphere,
into the milky air, a milky day. Limpid
the tender colors on the old hillside;
Roger, the founder, like an old blind seer
(or pirate) reaches out one hesitant hand
over the prow, over the cliff... and the day,
and the town, wheel on a carousel (hurray!)
of history. Light sinks westward, overland.
Blackstone lingers 'mid forgotten lore
on Study Hill, forevermore. It was for this
(eccentric candlelight) into the wilderness
he rode his bull – to think what came before.
What was, in what will be. Some mandorla-
canoe, rimmed with lapis lazuli
and sparks – some fiery wheel
of Ezekiel (blizzard of apple-petal-
fall). And in the matrix of his questing,
singular, green-almond eye – someone
unknown. Nobody. Snowbird. Everyman.
A shifty junkman, here and gone. Interesting!
Late afternoon, melting snowdrops tremble
as rainbows in the ripening light, a sheen
over deep flesh-tones of a limestone
wall. Old leaning ghosts assemble
here. The Kid, the Railsplitter, the Pioneer...
the anonymous one who always went before...
Time slows to the measure of a creaking door.
A stone, rolled from a spring cavern. A single tear.