They receded in a snow-misted series,
The usually sere peaks seen from the road,
The stance of the seven, veiled. What to do
With this experience of a world for which
I have been tuned, my ancestors turned
On the spinning axis of its lathe, this world
Which selected for minds like mine that
See an almost unbearable beauty in scenes
That for the world itself are ordinary, routine,
The mountains crushed up by shifting crust,
The clouds condensing as all clouds must.
I’d say it was an irrelevant coincidence,
Except it’s almost ego, I suspect. This scrim,
These veils of virga snows, all within this
Something spun the one thing guaranteed
From birth to worship it. Our filial devotion,
Our pleasure in this planet that shapes
And masters, then reabsorbs us each to find
Whatever better, more devoted shapes
It has in mind, isn’t this the reason for all
Parenting, this the mother of all parents?
I haunted the mountains that haunted me,
Haunted the shapes that shaped me
Because I was made to praise what made me
Even if it had no idea what praise might be
Until it carved from itself these singing species.
Night fell as I rolled on and ghosts receded.
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